


A House Distracted

by hwshipper



Series: The Chris 'Verse [6]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-26
Updated: 2008-05-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hwshipper/pseuds/hwshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worlds of Wilson and Chris collide again. Meanwhile House is distracted by someone new in his life. One story told in four parts, each from a different POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chris

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta:** the always splendid [](http://starlingthefool.livejournal.com/profile)[**starlingthefool**](http://starlingthefool.livejournal.com/)  
> Sequel fic to [The Story of Chris.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68501/chapters/90382) Inspired by a detailed plot summary from [](http://dropthetowel.livejournal.com/profile)[**dropthetowel**](http://dropthetowel.livejournal.com/). Initial medical advice from [](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=siljab)[**siljab**](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=siljab).

It was early evening and Chris was at his club. He was sitting at the upstairs bar, reading a newspaper, while a cigarette smoked itself out in the ashtray by his elbow. The room was quiet and the bartender was polishing glasses down the other end of the bar.

Linus came in and plumped his portly frame down on the next stool along.

"Hey," Chris barely glanced up.

"Hey." Linus graciously accepted the beer that the bartender had placed in front of him. "Chris, I need a favor."

"Oh?" Chris looked up, only half-listening.

"I'm going to the doctor's tomorrow, to get some test results." Linus picked up a beer mat and twisted it between his fingers. "I need someone to come with me."

Tomorrow wasn't really very convenient; Chris was going to see a restaurant for sale some way up the coast. He didn't think he'd want to buy it but thought it worth a look. "Can't Raul go with you?"

Raul had appeared in Linus's life about six months before. Appallingly young, terribly high-strung, and with a great capacity for blowjobs (which Chris could testify to personally), he had moved into Linus's house one day and so far Linus showed no signs of throwing him out. Although Linus did periodically joke to Chris that he fully expected to wake up one morning and find Raul had vanished along with the big-screen TV.

"Much as I adore Raul," Linus said, his voice dry, "he's not the kind of person I want there with me when I'm possibly going to be informed that I've got a life-threatening disease."

Suddenly he had Chris's full attention. The key words sunk in: _doctor. Test results. Life-threatening disease._ Chris closed the newspaper and sat up. God, he'd always feared this day would come. A lifetime of risky behavior, coming home to roost.

"I'm sorry, Linus, of course I'll come with you," Chris said hastily. "Um--it's not the death sentence it used to be, of course."

"My dear Chris," Linus's tone was gentle. "Not _that_ disease. They think--they think I've got cancer."

Chris felt a wrench turning in his gut. _Shit._

Not knowing what to say, Chris picked his cigarette up. He and Linus both looked at it, then Chris grimaced and put it down again.

They watched as it turned to ashes in the ashtray.

 

* * *

  
It was a sunny spring day at Princeton Plainsboro, and Chris was waiting perched on the table inside Exam Room 1.

He didn't have to wait long before Wilson walked in the door, looking down at the file in his hands. He'd had a new hairstyle since Chris last saw him, a year and a half ago; it was shorter, and made him look more serious. Or perhaps that was the white coat; Chris was used to seeing Wilson in casual clothes, and ridiculous as it might be, it was somehow a bit of a shock to see him looking like a doctor.

Wilson shut the door and looked up, and at the sight of Chris, his eyes widened in alarm and he stopped short. Chris spoke swiftly, before Wilson could speak, "I'm here about Linus."

"Linus?" Wilson echoed.

"He's got cancer. Prostate cancer. He needs a referral to a hospital for treatment." Chris got the important information out quickly, afraid Wilson might simply walk out. "And apparently Princeton Plainsboro has the best oncology department on the eastern seaboard, and you're in charge of it."

Wilson stood still for a moment, digesting the news.

Chris took the silence as hesitation. "Wilson, please..." He didn't know he was going to convince Wilson to take Linus on, except that he'd do whatever necessary. Stay, go, put out, shut up, whatever.

"Of course I'll take him," Wilson said hastily. "I'm just a bit... shocked. Um... are _you_ all right? I mean, you're not a real clinic patient, are you?"

"Oh no, it was just an excuse," Chris explained. "I told the nurse you'd seen me before and she put me on your list."

Wilson smiled a little. "Right. Look, I should see some patients that are actually sick now, but if you don't mind hanging around for a bit, perhaps we could go for coffee or something?"

Chris nodded, relieved. An hour later they met in a cafe outside the hospital. Over coffee, Chris explained Linus's state of health as far as he was able. Wilson listened intently.

"Tell Linus of course I'll take him, get his doctor to refer him to me as soon as possible. I'll keep an eye out for it, we'll have him in as soon as possible." Wilson paused. "I'm really sorry he's sick. You know I was always very fond of Linus."

"Yeah." Chris stuck a spoon in his coffee and stirred it, even though there was no need to do so, and tried not to look like he was studying Wilson too closely. He really had forgotten just deep a brown Wilson's eyes were. On the other hand, the blue striped tie he was wearing had to be the ugliest tie that Chris had ever seen. He wondered if Wilson's wife picked his ties out for him. Chris took a deep breath and said, "I hear you got married again?"

"Uh, yeah." Wilson met Chris's eye. "Julie. We've been married a year now."

Chris let his gaze drop deliberately down to Wilson's left hand, which was bare. "All well?"

"Fine." Wilson fidgeted slightly, twisting his coffee cup around in his hands. "I've never been any good at wearing a ring... I take it off for a procedure and forget to put it on again."

Chris wondered what Julie made of her ringless husband.

"Look, I don't want to cause any trouble," Chris said abruptly. "If you'll take Linus I can be around or not, whatever you want. If you don't want to see me, then I'll push off and not come back. Or I'll hang around, if you don't mind."

Wilson smiled a little. "I don't mind you being around. I guess Linus needs a friend at the moment."

"Yeah." Talking of friends... "And House, how's he?"

"House is... fine." Wilson nodded, looking slightly surprised at his own words. "Yes, he's definitely going through a good patch. Not sure why. Best not to know, sometimes."

They parted amicably; Chris was relieved with how everything had gone. And a little wistful. He'd forgotten just how... _good_ it was being with James Wilson.

* * *

  
Chris invited himself along to Linus's initial appointment at Princeton Plainsboro, as it didn't seem right to let Linus to go on his own. Linus protested a little-- "Let's not make things any more awkward for Wilson, the poor dear boy, than they already are--" but eventually acquiesced, and Chris was sure that Linus was secretly glad of the company.

At the hospital, a nurse took down Linus's details on a form while they waited to see Wilson in his office. They came to a halt at the last question.

"I don't have any next of kin." Linus let out a large theatrical sigh. "I outlived them all long ago. Chris is the closest I've got." He waved an arm towards Chris.

The nurse looked sympathetically at Chris and nodded, and Chris realized instantly that she thought they were a couple. The idea made him want to laugh, but he nodded back seriously instead, and saw Linus's face crease into suppressed mirth behind her.

The nurse solemnly took down Chris's details, then left, saying Dr. Wilson would be with them shortly. She threw another sympathetic look at Chris as she left. The minute she was out of the door they both burst out laughing, and that was how Wilson found them when he walked in a minute later.

"Wilson!" Linus was immediately thrilled. "How fantastic to see you. And as a doctor, too--that white coat, so cute! You look great."

"So do you, actually," Wilson said, smiling, sitting behind his desk. "Laughter as the best medicine, perhaps."

"Ah, your nurse there assumed Chris and I were a couple," Linus explained delightedly. He looked at Chris and raised a shrewd eyebrow. "Best not to dissuade people of that, perhaps?"

Chris nodded thoughtfully; he hadn't thought about it, but of course such an assumption would serve to detract from any connection with Wilson. Why not play along?

"Unless Raul is going to come visit you here--" Chris began.

"I have expressly forbidden that," Linus said firmly. "He said he would, but the poor dear has a hospital phobia and I'm not having him swooning all over the place. There's only room for one drama queen around here, and that's me. He's to stay at home and mind the house. You'd better pop along occasionally and make sure the parties he'll be throwing don't get out of hand."

Wilson was listening in obvious fascination. Linus looked at Wilson and said with a wink, "Ah, don't you miss all this, Wilson?"

"I take the fifth," Wilson said, deadpan.

Chris sat back in his chair and listened as Wilson talked to Linus about his cancer and his options. Linus had prostate adenocarcinoma; it had been caught fairly early and hadn't yet spread. Wilson was at pains to stress that he'd discussed Linus's case with a colleague, to ensure his personal connection with Linus didn't affect his medical judgment. The opinion of Wilson and his colleague was that surgery was unnecessary (which Linus was pleased to hear; "My prostate's given me a helluva lot of pleasure over the years, I'd hate to lose it,") and radiation therapy was recommended.

"Is that anything like chemotherapy?" Linus asked, apprehensive.

"Not as extreme, but it does have possible side effects." Wilson produced literature on radiotherapy, and talked Linus through it in detail. He listed some side effects; fatigue, tender skin, nausea, diarrhea, peeing a lot...

"Cut to the important stuff here, Wilson," Linus said, wide-eyed and earnest. "What about sex?"

Wilson rolled his eyes and fed back the line Linus was expecting. "Not right now. But seriously..." and Wilson looked hard at Linus, "Between 30 and 50 per cent of patients have some erection problems afterwards."

Linus sighed and remarked, "I guess this is when Viagra's really supposed to be used, isn't it?"

After further lengthy discussion of possible alternative treatments, once Wilson was satisfied that Linus understood everything necessary, it was agreed that Linus would start a six-week course of radiotherapy the following week. The course was intense, with treatment every day, and because of the long journey he would have to make to Princeton, it was also agreed that he would be admitted to Princeton Plainsboro for the duration. Wilson offered Linus a tour of the hospital, and walked Chris and Linus through the oncology wards.

Chris found it strange seeing Wilson at work, as the professional, the doctor, the department head. Staff came up and asked him questions; patients paused to chat. It was clear that Wilson was in his element; comfortable in his role, well regarded by all. It was a side of Wilson that Chris had been aware must exist, but never seen before. Chris started to feel really quite impressed. He was starting to remember all the things he'd liked about Wilson that really had been Wilson, and not a dim reflection of Edward.

Linus seemed to appreciate it too. He stopped by the large board displaying donor's names in the foyer and asked, "So how much do you have to donate to get your name on this board?"

"I don't think there's a threshold, exactly," Wilson laughed. "Not a publicized one, anyway."

Linus gazed at the board, then looked at Wilson with penetrating eyes. "Would it help?"

Wilson hesitated, then said, "Linus, you know you don't have to give anything to the hospital to get the best possible treatment." He shrugged, and added in a breezy tone, "But my boss, Dr. Cuddy, would never forgive me if I didn't say at this point that the hospital always welcomes all donations, large or small."

Chris grinned a little. He knew Wilson wouldn't have said anything like that if he hadn't known Linus was both wealthy and philanthropically inclined.

Wilson dropped his voice considerably, and added, "Don't worry about it, Linus, really."

Linus nodded: they walked on. Linus muttered, "Cut the crap, Wilson; would it help?"

Wilson sighed a little, and said almost under his breath. "Yes, it would. At least, it certainly helps patients get to be treated by House, if they want to be. Not that House gives a damn of course, but Cuddy does. It's possible if Cuddy knew you were a donor she'd be much more sympathetic to me skipping board meetings and committees and so on, if I needed to."

"Say no more," Linus said, and they said no more.

Later, Chris found out Linus had indeed gotten out his checkbook and doubled the amount that Wilson had tentatively suggested.

* * *

  
Linus had another planning visit, and was then admitted to Princeton Plainsboro for his course of radiotherapy. Chris accompanied him on the first day, hovering in the corner of Linus's room and watching Wilson at work, settling Linus in. Wilson really was the consummate professional doctor, giving Linus just enough explanation to make what was going to happen comprehensible, just enough reassurance without false platitude.

Eventually Wilson departed to see other patients. After he'd left the room, Linus lay back in the bed, stretched his arms out and said, "Chris. You have to leave the pretty boy alone."

Chris jumped. "What? I'm not--"

"Oh yes you are. You're undressing him with your eyes each time you look at him." Linus shook a finger at Chris. "Now I know him in that white coat is just beautiful, but you _have_ to resist. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times... stay away from the married men!"

The reminder that Wilson was married was immediately depressing. Linus was quite right. "Okay, okay," Chris said, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

On future visits, Chris made a conscious effort not to hang about too much when Wilson was around; he made polite excuses about Linus needing privacy (which were just excuses; Linus had no qualms whatsoever about sharing every physical twinge) and left the room.

But inevitably, the less he saw of Wilson, the more he thought about him, the more desirable the man became. And Chris was uncomfortably aware how one-sided this was: Wilson hadn't given him so much of a hunt of encouragement.

This was brought abruptly home to him a couple of weeks after Linus was admitted. Chris was visiting Linus and had gone down to the cafeteria for a break. On his way back, he bumped into Wilson in the corridor outside Linus's room.

"Hey, Chris," Wilson greeted him.

"Hey, Wilson," Chris said, smiling, thinking that Wilson got possibly cuter each time they met.

"I guess you're spending a lot of time traveling back and forth at the moment," Wilson remarked.

Chris was indeed spending a lot of time whizzing up and down between the Jersey coast where he lived and Princeton. It was a journey he'd done a lot at one time."It doesn't take that long on the bike," Chris said, and added a little daringly, "I get a sense of déjà vu sometimes."

Wilson's brow furrowed; he looked perturbed. Chris immediately regretted the reference to their shared past, and all the more so when Wilson said unexpectedly, "Chris, could we have a word in my office?"

Surprised, Chris nodded and followed Wilson towards his office. Once inside, Wilson shut the door behind them and turned to face Chris.

"Look... Chris..." Wilson said awkwardly. "We get on well, don't we? No hard feelings, are there? There's no reason we can't be friends, don't you think?"

Chris stared. _No reason?_ Other than Wilson being still completely fucking irresistible, no, no reason at all. Chris felt his cheeks go hot with humiliation; his feelings must have been really obvious. There was no way Wilson would initiate such an embarrassing conversation unless he'd really felt this needed to be said.

"Uh... if that's what you want," Chris eventually managed to get the words out.

Wilson looked extremely uncomfortable, but nodded firmly. "Yes."

"Does House allow you any other friends?" Chris asked, trying to joke but with an undercurrent of seriousness.

Wilson smiled a little. "Well, he doesn't know you're around, yet... I guess we'll have to wait and see. But he's really being very... undemanding at the moment, for House." He looked at Chris, his deep brown eyes moving like searchlights. "Are we okay?"

"Of course we're okay," Chris said immediately, not wanting to cause trouble in the least, and desiring above all to maintain some sort of connection with Wilson. Wilson nodded, apparently satisfied.

Chris muttered that he should go, and left the room. As he walked, he felt his stomach sink, and he wanted to crawl into a corner and curl up in a ball. What a _ghastly_ conversation. Chris would have left the hospital immediately, but he'd left his jacket in Linus's room. He might even have abandoned the jacket there, but the keys to his motorcycle were in the pocket. He stomped back to Linus's room and found Linus lying still, but not asleep.

"You look like you just got your dick slammed in a door," Linus remarked.

"It feels like that." Chris grabbed his jacket and checked the pocket for his keys. He hadn't been going to say anything, but he couldn't help it, and anyway Linus should know. "He just wants to be _friends_."

"Ah." Linus lay back and digested this information. "Well, thank heavens one of you has a bit of sense." He looked at Chris. "Go back to my house and get Raul to blow you. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."

"Thanks, but no thanks, Linus," Chris said tiredly, and left.

Chris headed for home, but realizing there was no way he would ever settle tonight as he was, he stopped on the way at one of his bars; the roadside bar next to a motel, the place where he'd first met Wilson and House all those years ago. He picked up a stranger, a traveling salesman staying at the motel for a night; middle aged, with burnt-out eyes and a white mark on the third finger of his left hand where a wedding band usually resided.

Later that night amid sweat and thrusting limbs, Chris thought in a detached way that on one level this was deeply unsatisfying. But on another level, he felt it was the only thing to have kept him sane that evening.

* * *

  
It was only a matter of time before House found out about Linus being a patient at the hospital. Wilson appeared to be content to wait for House to find out. The only surprise was that it took as long as it did; it was a good three weeks after Linus had been admitted as a patient before it happened.

Having swanned through the first half of the radiotherapy course, Linus had just started to suffer side effects and was distinctly more lethargic. He also felt sore, and sick most of the time, and as a result wasn't eating properly. Wilson had just come in to check on progress, and was telling Linus how important it was to keep eating, when House came barging in, apparently in pursuit.

House saw first Wilson, then Linus in the bed, and then Chris, leaning against the wall. At the sight of Chris, House's eyebrows hit his hairline.

"Dr. House, I assume?" Linus said, never one to be silenced by awkward situations. He had met House before, but only once.

Chris braced himself for--well, just about anything, actually. House shut the door behind him and leaned on his cane, regarding the scene before him thoughtfully. They all waited for him to say something.

"How cozy," House said eventually. "Hospital gossip said there were a same-sex couple who were friends of Wilson's in room two-oh-four. I was hoping for a pair of hot teenage lesbians. _What_ a disappointment." His blue eyes swiveled and pierced first Linus, then Chris. They stayed on Chris. "Since when have the two of you been a couple?" House barely paused before going on, "You're not, are you? You're protecting Wilson from any nasty hospital chit-chat. So kind of you both."

"Fuck off, House." Chris said evenly. He'd never taken any crap from House before and wasn't about to start now.

"House," Wilson said, a pleading note in his voice, and House looked at Wilson.

Chris watched an unspoken conversation take place, almost invisible to anyone but House and Wilson, before House shrugged and looked away. Wilson looked ever so slightly relieved. House turned and picked up the chart from the end of Linus's bed, saying airily "It's all right, I'm a doctor."

He flipped through it quickly. "Prostate cancer? Lucky you." He put the chart down and looked at Linus. "I'm sure Champion the Wonder Oncologist here has it all under control."

"Oh yes," Linus said dryly. "We passed the point of diagnosis some time ago, I fear."

"Then my work here is done." House looked around. "Nice room you've got here. You must've slipped Cuddy a backhander." He paused, then added, "I would just say you'd slipped her one, but I know that's not your scene."

And House departed, banging the door behind him. Chris let out a breath; that had been okay.

"So, what we were afraid of again?" Linus inquired. "He didn't seem to give a damn."

"Thank fuck," said Chris.

But Wilson was standing with suspicion writ large on his face, and said quietly, almost under his breath, "I don't get it; he's being far too... _affable_." Frowning, he muttered "Excuse me," and left the room.

Chris and Linus looked at each other and shrugged. Chris didn't really care whether House was indifferent or affable, so long as he wasn't causing trouble.

* * *

  
A few days after House had come on the scene, Chris was lurking in a corner of the room while Wilson chatted to Linus, when they were unexpectedly graced by a personal visit by Dr. Cuddy, the Dean of Medicine. Chris had never met her before, although Wilson had talked about her on occasion.

Cuddy came bustling in. She had big hair and was wearing a low-cut black lace-trimmed top. She smiled benevolently at Wilson and then turned a hundred-watt smile on Linus. "Delighted to meet you, Mr.-"

"Linus, please," Linus said, offering his hand majestically, tilting his head to one side.

"I wanted to thank you personally for your most generous donation. The hospital really appreciates it. I'm only sorry it's under such circumstances," Cuddy said. "But you're in the best possible hands, as I'm sure you know."

They shook hands and talked briefly about how Linus was doing. Linus was in superb camp overload mode, making sweeping gestures with his hands and fluttering his eyelids as he described the ghastliness of the side effects. Chris watched in amusement and thought _you shameless old queen_. And he wasn't entirely sure which of the two of them that description applied to more. At one point, having just informed Cuddy that he had lost all his "hair down _there_'" Linus observed, "Of course that may be a good thing. Women pay good money for getting rid of all that, I believe?"

Cuddy laughed, and said, "We certainly do. Clearly radiotherapy is the way to go." A thought apparently struck her; she glanced up and remarked, "Oh, by the way Dr. Wilson, your wife was here a minute ago. She was down in the lobby looking for you."

At the word _wife_ Chris froze, and saw Linus go still, too.

Wilson merely raised an eyebrow though, and said, "Julie's here? I had better go and find what she wants. Do excuse me, Linus."

Linus nodded, looking a little dazed, and Wilson left the room, not glancing at Chris. Chris watched him go, waited for a few seconds, then muttered an excuse and left the room himself, leaving Linus with Cuddy.

He was just in time to see the elevator doors closing behind Wilson. Chris took the stairs, hurrying without running, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Down in the lobby, he hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, looking around--and there she was. Wilson standing talking to a small brunette woman whom Chris had only ever seen in photographs. Julie.

Chris watched, mesmerized, for a moment. He knew Wilson was married, had been married twice before, but Chris had never actually seen him close to a woman like this. She seemed to be vaguely annoyed about something; Wilson put a pacifying hand on her arm. Then he bent his head to kiss her.

Chris felt like his heart was being sliced systematically across, like a loaf of bread, the knife cutting in again and again.

"Aren't they just the perfect couple?" a voice said next to him.

Chris nearly jumped out of his skin. House the bastard, creeping up on him. Chris turned and glared, angry and hurt. "Fuck off, House."

House was looking at him as if at a specimen under the microscope. "I diagnose an extreme case of the green-eyed monster. Exacerbated by the fact you can't rationalize it, and have no hope of getting into his pants ever again."

Chris glared again, then a thought struck him. He looked at House, and asked, "How do _you_ stand it?"

"Me?" House grinned slightly, a wolfish smile. "Habit of a lifetime. And anyway, it's always easier when you're getting some elsewhere."

Chris wasn't going to give House the satisfaction of being curious about that last statement. He turned away and headed back towards Linus's room.

* * *

  
Life went on, even with Linus in the hospital. As the weeks of treatment continued, Chris still went up to Princeton every few days but found his time squeezed; one of the administrators at his club left, and left a bunch of incomplete financial paperwork behind him.

Chris was vaguely comforted by the fact that Linus had befriended one of the younger doctors at the hospital, Dr. Robert Chase, who worked for House but didn't seem to mind sitting gossiping and playing cards with Linus. Chase was very new in the job, apparently, and House wasn't giving him much work to do.

Chris was at his club in his office one Friday evening looking through accounts when a call came through. It was the bouncer on the door to the upstairs bar.

"Uh, boss? There's a guy here who says he knows you."

The upstairs bar was invitation only. Chris was used to getting messages about people claiming to know him; they usually didn't. "Yeah?" Chris said idly, most of his attention still on the columns of figures.

"Dr. Greg House. And there's another guy with him."

All thoughts of work suddenly vanished from Chris's head. Chris gaped down the phone, and said, "Uh--yeah. That's fine. Let them in."

"Uh, they're already in. Dan met them downstairs and brought them up. I just thought you should know..."

Dan, a longstanding poker regular, knew House from way back when Chris had first met House and Wilson. Chris was a bit surprised to hear this, but not hugely; he'd always thought Dan had a thing with House that Chris (and Wilson) had never heard about.

"That's fine." Chris put the phone down and wondered what the hell was going on. House, turning up here, at his club? And with another guy? Who? It couldn't possibly be Wilson. All his staff knew Wilson and had been most sorry to see him go. If Wilson ever walked into this place again he'd be mobbed with delighted doormen, cheering hat-check girls, and pleased-as-punch bar staff.

Suddenly alive with curiosity, Chris abandoned the books, and made his way out of his office and down the short corridor that came out behind the bar. He paused, looking into the room. It was House, and with him was a man Chris had never seen before. Tall, fair and very skinny. And yes--he wasn't just with House, he was _with _House. They were just sitting down at a table, and House, conversing animatedly with Dan, had a hand closed around the other's man's arm.

Chris strolled over casually. He didn't want to join them, couldn't bring himself to be friendly with House, who was bound to slap any such overtures back anyway. But he did want to meet the new guy.

"Hi," Chris said, leaning on the back of a chair. "I'm Chris."

"You're the owner," the guy said immediately, and they shook hands. "I'm Gary. Pleased to meet you."

House was otherwise occupied, talking to Dan (deliberately ignoring Chris, Chris thought), so Chris chatted to Gary for a minute and found out some boring facts like he worked in IT in Princeton, and the rather more interesting fact that he'd met House nearly three months ago when he'd moved into House's apartment block.

"And how do you know House?" Gary asked in return.

Chris hesitated: what to say? The connection was Wilson, of course, and Chris took it for granted that anyone going out with House would have to know Wilson, or at least know of Wilson. He chose to keep it simple. "I'm a friend of Wilson's."

"No shit!" Gary's eyebrows shot up, then he glanced at House.

"You know Wilson?" Chris asked innocently, wondering _does he know you?_

"Met him a few times. Only briefly though." Gary definitely looked like he wanted to ask Chris something.

At this point House looked round at Chris, and said, "You still keep exclusive single malts in your office?"

Chris had always thought House was an outrageous scrounger, had never understood why Wilson put up with it. "You might find out, if you spend some money at the bar first," Chris answered, and strolled away, back to his office.

He couldn't concentrate on accounts after that though. He forced himself to try, and an unproductive hour later, Chris came back to the bar to find House and Gary now involved in a poker game. Chris perched himself on a stool near the end of the bar, his favored spot, and watched from a distance. House was being loud and flamboyant.

Gary spotted Chris, and excused himself from the game a minute later. He came up and sat on the stool next to Chris. Chris waited.

"So. House and Wilson," Gary said casually. "What's the deal there?"

"Shouldn't you be asking them that?" Chris was wary.

Gary waved a weary hand. "House won't open up to me. Bastard keeps his armor on at all times. Happy to take it up the ass so long as I don't try and get in his head. And Wilson--whenever I see him he leaves the room as quickly as possible." Gary stared hard at Chris. "Is it complicated, or is it actually really simple?

"Simple how?"

"Like, boy meets boy, but boy has a yen for his best friend. And the best friend is so fucking pathetic and repressed that he has to keep on getting married to convince himself."

Chris discovered at that moment that he couldn't stand to hear criticism of Wilson. Even if there was a grain of truth in it. He didn't answer, but glowered at Gary sufficiently fiercely that Gary actually looked alarmed.

"Hey, keep your shirt on. I was only suggesting." Gary dropped his voice. "You had a thing for Wilson, did you?"

Chris then discovered another thing he also couldn't stand; hearing his relationship with Wilson trivialized. "Mind your own fucking business."

"Hey." Gary held his hands up in supplication. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know."

Chris relented a touch. "You really want my advice?"

"I want it. I may not take it."

Blunt speaker, this one. Chris supposed anyone going out with House would have to be. Chris shrugged and imparted his words of wisdom. "You want to be with House? Then there's no point being jealous of Wilson. It won't do a damn bit of good. Learn to live with it."

Gary pondered this. "You're saying, just put up with it? Just grin and bear it while they exchange meaningful glances, and have silent conversations, and eyesex across the room?"

"I'm saying, put up with it or walk away. And be grateful they're not actually fucking each other." Chris wasn't going to explain any more to this impudent stranger.

"That advice sucks," Gary declared.

Chris shrugged again. They both watched the poker game for a few minutes; eventually Gary went off to rejoin the game.

Later that evening when the club had just closed, Chris was standing leaning on his open office window, looking down at people spilling outside towards cars. His office was on the second floor and overlooked the parking lot. It was an old habit of his to look out at closing time. He had been in the habit of having his final cigarette of the night while doing so, but he had now given up smoking, again. Chris hadn't smoked since that moment at the bar when Linus had told him of the possible diagnosis: the fact that smoking apparently had no connection with prostate cancer hadn't detracted from his revulsion. Linus now joked that his prostate was saving Chris's lungs.

Chris spotted House perched waiting on a bollard down below, then saw Gary come outside to join him, maneuvering through the crowd. Gary walked up to stand in front of House, and Chris watched as House slid an arm round Gary's waist.

Then Gary slipped an arm round House's shoulder, and the two of them kissed. It was a brief moment, but intimate and surprisingly tender. Chris felt like he'd been given an insight into a side of House he hadn't seen before.

Chris wondered again what Wilson made of all this.

* * *

  
Linus's course of radiotherapy was nearing its end, and going well, except that Linus seemed to be suffering every side effect possible. He was constantly tired and pale and sick, and had lost quite a lot of weight. He moaned constantly about being sore, and of endless bowel problems and other indignities.

Chris had driven up to visit on a day when he was also tired, and would rather not have made the journey. He found Linus shifting around in bed, white as a sheet, exhausted but unable to sleep with discomfort.

"Chris," Linus said, his voice crackling with pain. "There's something I wanted to tell you."

"It can wait," Chris said, deliberately harsh.

Linus wasn't to be put off. "I updated my will. Before I started in hospital, here. Just in case, y'know..."

Hell. Chris was an executor. "Linus, we really don't need to discuss this now..."

But Linus was determined. He took a moment, coughed a couple of times, and spoke much more firmly. "Not many changes. Still all the usual good causes. You still get a bigger boat."

Chris laughed a little. He and Linus had quarter shares in a fine sailing boat, and occasionally joked that they needed a bigger boat. Linus's share was the one thing Chris was bequeathed, which was fine; Chris didn't need or want anything from Linus.

"Just one change, really." Linus hesitated, then went on. "I've left Raul the house."

"What?" Chris's jaw dropped. He looked carefully at Linus; apparently his friend was serious. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"I can't abide the thought of him out on the street. He could end up in a _really _nasty place."

"I mean, he may not be old enough to legally inherit property." Chris was exaggerating to make a broader point.

"Oh please," Linus snorted. "This is why I wanted to mention it to you, so you know it's what I actually want, and it's not that he guided my trembling fingers as I signed the new document... He doesn't know about it. And you mustn't tell him. Or I'll have to watch my back for the rest of my life."

Chris shook his head in confusion. "Well, if you're sure...."

"Another thing, he'll have run out of money by now," Linus rattled on. "I went to the ATM this morning, very convenient to have one in the hospital, don't you think? There's an envelope in the drawer there, take it round to my house and give it to him tonight, please, Chris. I may not get the chance to see him again..."

"Linus!" Suddenly Chris was very upset. "You're not dying! You're doing really well. The side effects will pass--"

"And leave me in God knows what sort of a state. Who the fuck wants to live forever, anyway? We are all dying, Chris," Linus flung out a hand in an attempt at drama, but lacked the energy to really make a point of it. "I mean, any of us could end up under a truck at any moment."

That was a singularly thoughtless comment which could only bring another tragic traffic accident to Chris's mind, one he'd managed not to think about too much for quite some time now. Linus realized belatedly what he'd said, and looked horrified. "Chris, I didn't mean--"

"I know." Chris cut him off. But it was too late; Chris felt his gut wrench. He hadn't thought about things in this way before, but he'd lost Edward and now he might be losing Linus too. This was all just _far too fucking much_ to cope with. Suddenly Chris really couldn't stay there with Linus anymore.

He took the envelope Linus had asked him to give to Raul, and muttered he had to go, would be back tomorrow. Then he walked into the corridor and put a hand over his face. He felt wetness on his palm; Goddamnit, he was crying. This would not do. He blinked furiously, then took his hand away, and saw a blurred Wilson in front of him.

"Chris?" Wilson's voice, concerned, close to his ear.

Chris felt himself start to shake, then felt Wilson's hand on his arm, propelling him forward. Chris walked blindly alongside Wilson until a door closed behind them; Chris rubbed his eyes, looked around, and they were in Wilson's office.

"You okay?" Wilson's voice again, gentle, almost a murmur.

"Yeah." Chris's nose was running. He sniffed, then aware of how gross it sounded, groped in a pocket for a handkerchief. He blew his nose, and said through the cotton, "Just Linus."

Reassuring. "I know the side effects are bad, but he's doing really well."

"I know." Chris stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, and had to spill a little. "He's fucking talking about his will..."

Wilson was silent. His hand was still on Chris's arm; he lifted it and rested it on Chris's shoulder instead.

And suddenly Chris was very aware that Wilson was standing right next to him, really close, closer than they'd been at any point since that ghastly _let's-be-friends_ conversation. He could feel Wilson's breath on his neck, and thought perhaps that was Wilson's silky hair brushing lightly against his ear. He didn't move, tried to keep completely still, as if the moment would go on forever that way.

Then Wilson sighed a little, and moved away, and Chris let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

"Let me take you out to dinner tonight," Wilson said, and it was so completely unexpected that Chris shied away.

"Can't--have to go home--" Chris remembered the thick wedge of an envelope in his pocket. "Have to go to Linus's, give some money to Raul."

"Tomorrow night, then." Wilson's tone was gentleness personified, and this time Chris took a grip on himself, and nodded dumbly.

* * *

  
Wilson's dinner invitation had one immediate very welcome benefit: it kept Chris thinking about it, and not the pale-as-death Linus, all the long drive down to the coast. Was it just dinner on offer? Or dinner as a prelude to something else?

The more Chris told himself that Wilson was just being nice, the more he remembered what House always said: Wilson fed off neediness. Was positively turned on by it. Chris could recall occasions in their own relationship when Wilson had offered comfort by offering sex. And Wilson might just be in the right place for it to happen now. After all, House was distracted by Gary at the moment: and as for Julie, well, Chris had no idea. But surely it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility to hope...

Chris arrived back at Linus's house to find lights on, but apparently nobody home. The place hadn't been trashed, and the flat screen TV was still on the wall. He looked around the living room and found Raul was there, after all; curled up asleep in an enormous beanbag in front of the large flickering log fire. Long black eyelashes were curled shut over smooth olive skin. Chris could see why Linus wanted to keep him around; Raul was beautiful, no denying it.

He nudged the beanbag with a foot, and Raul woke with a jump. He was alert and sitting up in seconds.

"Chris!" Raul exclaimed. "How--how is he?"

"As well as can be expected," Chris said laconically, and put the envelope down on a nearby shining walnut surface. "He wanted me to give you this."

Raul glanced at the envelope, and rolled his eyes, and flung out an arm dramatically. "I don't want money, I want _him!_ Why won't he let me visit?"

"Because he looks like crap and he doesn't want you seeing him like that," Chris said bluntly. He really did not want Raul tagging along to the hospital.

"I wouldn't care!"

"Well, he cares," Chris said firmly.

"I just want him to get better and come home," Raul said sadly.

Chris looked at Raul, and a small evil cynical part of Chris wondered, _would you think that if you knew he'd left you the house? _And then Chris immediately felt ashamed of himself. He glanced around the room; Linus's house felt warm and comfortable, and suddenly he didn't want to return to his own place, which would be cold and empty. "Look, I'm going to stay here tonight. I'll see you in the morning."

"You want company?" Raul asked, not archly, just asking.

Chris hesitated, then said, "No," and headed off towards one of the guest rooms before he could change his mind. He had dinner with Wilson to look forward to tomorrow night.

He woke in the middle of the night to find Raul had crept in beside him anyway, and was curled up asleep a few inches away. It was like having a puppy snuggled up against him. Chris found it curiously comforting. He fell asleep again, and slept until morning.


	2. House

House was at home one Saturday afternoon, going through a painful few hours of muscle spasm with his leg. He was sitting on his couch, feeling blades turning in his thigh, grinding his teeth and waiting for the Vicodin to kick in, when there was a knock at the door. He didn't recognize it.

"Go away!" he shouted.

Instead the door opened, and there stood a man House hadn't seen before. Tall, skinny, fair hair, greeny-blue eyes. Maybe a year or so younger than House himself.

"Hey," he said. "I'm Gary, your new neighbor in apartment D upstairs. I just moved in today and I can't find the box that I packed my kettle in--I was wondering if I could scrounge a cup of coffee?" He put his head slightly on one side, his mop of hair falling to one side, and smiled sheepishly. "I'm not an ax murderer or anything--I'm an IT engineer, very boring. Just suffering from caffeine deprivation."

Clearly this man needed a lesson. House was not the kind of neighbor you borrowed coffee from. House was the kind of neighbor you avoided like the plague if you didn't want guitar solos through your floor at 2 AM. House opened his mouth to deliver such a lesson, but then his eye fell on his laptop, currently sitting closed and useless on the coffee table. An IT engineer, quite possibly sent from heaven.

"You fix this laptop, I'll think about coffee," House said gruffly. The man looked a little surprised, but came in, shutting the door behind him. He moved across the room padding along like a large cat.

"What's the problem?" he asked, picking the laptop up and looking at it from side to side, turning it over with long bony hands.

"Won't charge." House was no IT slouch himself, and was fairly sure this was some sort of electrical fault, maybe a problem with the lead. Perhaps this man would have a spare lead he could use. "Battery finally conked out yesterday. In the middle of _Sexy Schoolgirl Slumber Party Live_, if you were watching."

House was aiming to shock, or at least to startle. Instead the man's mouth curved upwards in a smile, and he said, "Missed that one. Must've been too busy with _Barely Legal Frat Boys Pillow Fight_."

House looked at the man with interest. Capping a schoolgirl porn joke with a schoolboy porn joke was unexpected, and therefore interesting.

"Got a pair of pliers?" the man asked.

"Pliers?" House said suspiciously.

The man turned the back of the laptop towards House. "Look at the charger socket. The pins have got bent; that's why it won't charge. I guess you stuffed the lead in a bit too hard last time. Those schoolgirls have a lot to answer for. Actually, it's a common problem with this kind of laptop. If you've got a small pair of pliers, I can straighten the pins out."

House could have kicked himself. Such a simple mechanical problem, practically physical--he should have been able to do such a diagnosis himself, and fix it too.

"Under the kitchen sink," House said with reluctance. He didn't want to move right now, his leg was complaining too loudly.

The man walked towards the kitchen without hesitation; his apartment would have the same layout, of course. He returned with House's toolbox, put it down on the coffee table, and rooted through until he found a small pair of pliers. A minute later, the pins were straight; he plugged the lead into the laptop and lo and behold, the charger light came on.

House being House, he didn't hesitate to welch on the deal.

"Thanks," he said brightly. "Unfortunately I don't drink coffee. Health reasons. Caffeine addiction, you know--so there's none in the house. Try the old lady over the hall. Or there's a Starbucks two blocks away."

The man looked at House, amusement sparking in his eyes. "For someone who doesn't drink coffee, that's a mighty fine coffee machine in your kitchen."

Blast. House did indeed have a magnificent and expensive coffee machine which had pride of place on the kitchen worktop.

"A friend gave that to me." This was true. "I only keep it because I don't want to hurt his feelings." That wasn't true.

"Looks like your friend gave you some quality Venezuelan coffee to go with it, as there's a real nice looking bag of it on your windowsill," the man said. "Be a shame to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?"

And he got up and walked off towards the kitchen.

House was temporarily dumbfounded by the cheek, although this was definitely underpinned by grudging admiration.

"You sure you don't want one?" the man called through from the kitchen.

"No!" Suddenly coffee did indeed sound attractive, but House wasn't backing down on this now.

The man walked out of the kitchen five minutes later: House had his eyes shut, concentrating on controlling the pain in his leg. He heard a sound close to his elbow, and opened his eyes to see a steaming mug of coffee on the table. Damnit. His new neighbor was reading him suspiciously well. That was something Wilson might have done, and Wilson had years of House-experience behind him. House looked up just in time to see the man heading out of the door, holding another mug.

"And don't think you're stealing that mug from me," House called after him.

The man paused in the doorway, looked back, his mop of hair falling to one side again, and apparently recognized this as House's way of saying _thank-you,_ because he grinned. Then he closed the door behind him.

House picked up his coffee, and found his mood strangely lighter than it had been half an hour before.

 

* * *

  
Half an hour later, the Vicodin had had some effect, although House's leg was still quite extraordinarily painful. There came another knock at the door. Before House could say anything the door opened, and lo and behold, it was his new neighbor again. Coffee Guy, House now mentally labeled him. He came inside, looking tired and sweaty, dangling House's mug in one hand. His hair straggled lankly around his face.

"Brought the mug back," Coffee Guy said.

House looked at it, and then at him, with suspicion. "You haven't even washed it up!"

"I haven't found the box with my washing-up liquid in it yet. Anyway, I'm returning it in the condition I found it in. I had to wash it up before I could use it. You need to fire your washer-upper."

House grunted and said without thinking, "He's not been so hot since he went off and got married."

There was a slight pause, then the man said, "Actually, I need a favor."

House rolled his eyes. "It is so not your turn to ask a favor."

"Yes it is. I asked you for coffee, you asked for help with your laptop."

"Meaning it is now your turn to never bother me again." House was firm. He had a reputation to uphold here.

The man ignored that comment altogether. "You're a doctor, I just dropped a box on my hand. It weighed a ton, and a staple was loose and ripped my hand up, it hurts like fuck. Could you take a look at it?" Coffee Guy held out his left hand, previously hidden behind his back. A bloodstained handkerchief was tied loosely around it.

House grimaced. It looked gross; he had no intention of looking at it. "Who said I was a doctor?"

"You're Dr. Gregory House. I saw your name on the pill bottle on the kitchen counter. The Vicodin."

"Ah. Well, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a medical doctor, I'm a doctor of philosophy. English Lit," House improvised without even thinking about it. "I believe Princeton Plainsboro has a free clinic. Why don't you pop along there, it's not far. Ask for Dr. Wilson. I'm sure you saw his name on my pill bottle too."

"You know there's a clinic there because you work there." The man's tone was amused rather than annoyed. "I googled you."

"Oh I've got myself a fucking stalker now, have I?" House didn't know whether to be flattered or outraged. "Well, if you googled me, you'll know I'm Head of Diagnostics. I do not do clinic duty and I do not fucking well bandage people's hands up for them when they've been stupid enough to drop a box on them." Another thought struck him. "You googled me? Then you've managed to unpack enough to set up a computer, even though you can't find coffee."

"First thing out of the box. Got to get priorities right. Need my computer to keep up with those barely legal frat boys," Coffee Guy said, with a wink. "Though I think I may have found a new kink. I'm going to have to google cranky grizzled doctors with bum legs."

House stared in surprise. Damn it all to hell, his neighbor was flirting with him. And not being at all subtle about it, either. What the fuck was this all about?

"Just as well it's my left hand," Coffee Guy added. "Seeing as I do all my favorite things with my right."

"Lemme see your hand," House said gruffly.

The man sat down on the couch next to House and held out his paw. House pulled off the handkerchief, and scrutinized a mess of blood, torn skin and new bruising, including a couple of fingernails that were going to turn black. But it looked worse than it was; the lacerations had already stopped bleeding.

"Go and run your hand under the tap," House instructed. "Wash off all that blood. And then get my first aid kit. I know you'll have noticed it under the kitchen sink."

The man stood up obediently.

"And wash my mug up while you're at it," House added, and Coffee Guy rolled his eyes and took the mug with him. House sat back on the couch and listened to the sound of running water.

The sound had an unfortunate effect: House had been trying to avoid having to go to the bathroom until his leg eased up. If he'd been on his own he'd have grabbed that nearby cup and... but his new neighbor was just in the kitchen. House gritted his teeth and looked around for his cane. He then remembered he'd left it in the bedroom.

He stood up and made his way across the room, holding onto pieces of furniture for support. House could do without the cane for short periods with no problem usually, but his leg was really pounding at the moment and every step was an effort. As he stepped towards the bedroom, he felt his foot fall a little awkwardly: pain shot through his body. _Damn damn damn--_

Suddenly the man was there beside him, grabbing House's arm with his good right hand. A second later House found himself leaning hard on the man's shoulder, his new neighbor taking his weight. House registered that his visitor knew what he was doing, knew how to provide support to a crippled man.

"You got crutches or a walking frame somewhere?" the man asked, confirming House's thoughts.

"Cane. In the bedroom." House barely got the words out; he hated appearing weak beyond all else. However he was favorably impressed that the man hadn't asked him if he was okay. The man moved House slightly so House was leaning against the back of a chair, then let go of him and headed towards the bedroom. Again, knowing the layout.

"They teach you care of cripples in IT these days?" House asked as the man returned with the cane.

"My last boyfriend was a wheelchair user." The man handed the cane to House. House grasped it, nodded curtly, then headed towards the bathroom, careful not to wobble.

He emerged a few minutes later, feeling considerably better. He found his neighbor sitting on the couch, nursing a clean hand and with the first aid kit on the table in front of him. House sat down next to him and opened the box. He hadn't opened it in quite some time and dimly remembered it being almost empty, but the contents were all present and correct. Wilson must have restocked it. He found a bandage and put a new dressing on the man's hand.

"Keep it clean," House said, smoothing the last edge down. "And take some Advil. There's a pharmacy down the road, if yours is in one of your many unpacked boxes still."

The man, leaning in close, flexed his wrist: House felt tendons move and stretch under his palm. "Don't need any right now. I took one of your Vicodin when I was in the kitchen, that should keep me going for a while."

House stared at his neighbor, speechless with annoyed surprise. "You _what_?"

The man looked at House, his face just a few inches away, his expression outrageously innocent. His eyes shone with mischief; at this distance House could see deep brown flecks glinting in the greeny-blue sea.

"You've got _some--fucking--nerve_," House said eventually, and this time he couldn't quite keep the admiration out of his voice. He was still holding the man's bandaged fist in his own right hand. He gave it a squeeze.

The man let out a startled exclamation. "_Ow! _Fuck!"

House, still hanging onto his fist, applied sustained pressure. The man wriggled his fingers, but House placed his other hand on top so he couldn't escape.

"I patch you up and you steal my drugs in return," House said, and this time his voice came out low and a little husky. "That's gratitude for you."

"I'm grateful," the man said, and reached to put his good hand on top of House's left hand. House leaned in a little, and that was enough; the other man closed the last inch or two of air between them, and their mouths met. Barely brushing at first pass; fastening at the second.

Coffee Guy had dry lips and tasted of coffee, unsurprisingly, sweat and cigarette smoke. As his tongue pushed into House's mouth, House felt an immediate rush of blood to the groin; a simple physical reaction to stimulated nerve endings, but surprisingly powerful. It had been a while since he'd kissed anyone, he realized. Wilson had been so much more evasive since he'd gotten married, _again,_ and the hookers just wouldn't do this. The intimacy was, well, nice.

He felt a hand in his hair, feather-light touch of fingers against his scalp, and by now House was definitely aroused. He reached out himself, a little tentatively: putting a hand on his neighbor's arm.

After a few minutes necking, Coffee Guy pulled back, a slightly startled expression on his face.

"Sorry," he muttered, averting his eyes.

"Don't be," House muttered back, also avoiding eye contact.

"Thanks," the other man said, indicating his hand, and he got up and left.

House sat back on the couch, wondering what the hell had just happened. Probably the guy had simply realized how pathetic it was to start necking with a grizzled old cripple, and had got out while he could. Meaning House had just let himself in for God knows how long a period of awkward hallway encounters.

House couldn't even remember the guy's name. Although he wasn't sure he'd been told.

Well, at least he'd got his laptop working again. House leaned forward and opened the lid. Perhaps he'd leave those schoolgirls for now and try and find those frat boys instead.

* * *

  
The following day, a Sunday, House slept in late, then embarked on a quiet afternoon slumped in front of the TV. He wondered idly when would be the best time to go round and barge on Wilson's weekend with Julie. Wilson was supposed to be putting up shelves, or something equally tedious; House was looking forward to walking in and causing some havoc at some point.

But before he got round to it, House's new neighbor appeared at his door. He looked fresher and brighter than he had done yesterday. His mop of fair hair no longer straggled round his face but shone with health and vigor, and his strange greeny-blue eyes (which House was starting to feel quite drawn towards) gleamed with energy.

"Hey," he said. "I'll trade you. Caffeine for alcohol. A cup of that Venezuelan coffee now, for a beer in a bar this evening."

House regarded him through narrowed eyes. "What is this, a date?"

The man shrugged. "If you want. I'll fumigate the mugs and make the coffee, shall I?"

"If you want." House said, thinking rather ridiculously, that he did have a vacancy for a washer-upper, after all.

"What the hell is your name?" House called, as his neighbor went through to the kitchen.

He grinned. "I'm Gary. And you're… Greg?"

House winced; not many people called him that and it made him think both of his parents and of Stacy. "Call me House."

They had coffee while watching the end of the original _Godzilla_, and discussed in a fairly light-hearted way merits of different sequels and remakes. They didn't touch, but House found himself acutely aware of the other man's presence a few inches away; his neatly bandaged hand resting on the top of the couch near House's shoulder.

Then well before outstaying his welcome, Gary stood up to go, saying "Pick you up at seven?"

"If you must," House said gruffly.

Gary picked House up at seven, and drove them out to a bar House had never been to before. Not too surprising as it was some way out of Princeton, and mostly frequented by men. With other men. They had several beers, and mostly argued about sport and politics, and mostly agreed about religion and music. House devoured a burger and fries, and ate most of Gary's fries too. And Gary kept touching House's knee with his thigh, and House didn't move away, but brushed right back, and felt a hard-on develop gradually through the evening.

And when the barman called time and Gary said, "Home?" House realized with a shock that this had been the most fun evening he'd had in ages.

Because home was actually the same building for both of them, they ended up right outside House's door, where House said casually, "Guess as I'm the only one with coffee, you'd better come in."

And once inside they didn't bother with coffee at all, but started chewing on each other's lips instead.

Mouth on mouth, House really was horny by his time, and more so than he had been for a long time. Gary pressed one hand up against his chest and grasped around his back with the other; House quivered and groped right back, clutching a handful of Gary's shirt in a fist. Fingers fiddled impatiently with buttons, palms slid against skin. Gary's breathing quickened rapidly as House pressed a hand up against his crotch.

House jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom; Gary nodded.

Once there, House sat down on the bed and pulled his pants leg down his bad thigh with a touch of defiance. He waited for some sort of reaction, any reaction. The hookers he occasionally indulged with were always warned, and the room was always in semi-darkness, but he still saw the odd flash of revulsion or pity in their eyes. He watched carefully, but Gary's eyes merely rolled over his blackened, pitted thigh and then up to his cock, at which point House observed an eyelid twitch of appreciation.

House knew this might be a stupid thing to do, but he couldn't let this go without a comment. "You like this sort of thing?" he asked, pointing at his leg.

Gary shrugged. "I've seen worse."

House abruptly recalled Gary's remark from the previous day; _my last boyfriend was in a wheelchair_. Resolving to get that story at some point, he put it aside and returned to the moment. Gary was also now naked, and although the man was a bit too skinny, his legs and body were whole and flawless, and his dick was long and upright and ready. House's own erection jerked slightly at the sight. Gary moved forward and straddled House, still perched on the bed, and the sensation of cock rubbing up against cock made House's brain short-circuit.

They sprawled on the bed together, kissing, pressing, panting, entangled. They ended up side by side, and Gary came with his cock pressed hard up against House's tailbone; House came into Gary's fist a minute later. House fell into orgasm-induced unconsciousness almost immediately.

* * *

  
Sometime later, House opened bleary eyes. The room was dark and empty and the apartment was quiet. He let his memory of the evening seep back.

Fuck. Somehow he'd ended up screwing around with his new neighbor. This had to be a bad idea.

At least Coffee Guy had the decency to leave without feeling the need to talk about it or (horrors) leaving an embarrassing note.

After a while, House got up, grasped his cane (which was conveniently to hand by the bed; he didn't think he'd left it there) and walked through to the living room. He stopped at the sight of his laptop, open on the coffee table. A screensaver rolled across: _You know where I live_.

House harrumphed, but couldn't quash a feeling of amused pleasure.

He realized later that he'd never got round to interrupting Wilson and his wife putting up those shelves that weekend after all.

* * *

  
A week later, House lay in bed in a similar state of post-orgasmic stupor, and mentally ran over the tally of the last seven days. Three blow jobs (two given, one received), three hand jobs (one given, two received) and two good hard fucks (honors shared). Frankly it was all pretty goddamn great. It had been a long time since he'd got nearly as much sex, and enjoyed it, too.

There were various reasons it seemed to work. One was that Gary didn't take any crap from House. The first time House decided it was a good idea to summon Gary by banging on his ceiling with his cane, Gary flew down only to tell House in no uncertain terms that he had better not fucking well do that again, ever. And for all House growled back, "Or what?", House didn't do it again.

And the sex was really very good indeed. So good, in fact, that House was able to assure himself that that was all this was about. Two lonely single guys with a shared ceiling/floor, getting each other's rocks off of an evening. Except that deep down, House knew it wasn't that simple.

The man next to him yawned and stretched, then sat up. "I should go."

House reflected that another reason this seemed to be working was that Gary had an almost Wilsonesque knack of knowing when to hang around and persevere with House's company, and when the best thing to do was just bugger off.

"See you tomorrow?" House said casually.

"Sure. I'll come down about six?" Gary pulled a T-shirt over his head. "Hey, you should come up and see me sometime."

"Make you smile?" House responded, and they both grinned. House added, "Cripple here, remember? I don't do stairs."

Gary turned and looked at him, and his mouth twisted upwards. "Except when you want to poke around when I'm not there."

House had indeed hauled himself upstairs to poke around, and was surprised that Gary had realized. He decided not to admit it, though. "I'd rather you were the one going down."

Gary grinned and poked House in the ribs. "I will. Tomorrow."

Gary kept his promise the following night. And they rolled on to a really very satisfactory pattern of spending most evenings out, followed by freaking hot nights in.

* * *

  
Gary had been on the scene a couple of months when House discerned that Wilson, too, had a distraction. He learned the hospital gossip from Chase, and pursued Wilson at a likely moment into a patient room, only to find that Chris was there, with his friend who was the mystery patient. House couldn't remember his name, he'd only met him once.

House shut Linus's room's door behind him and strode off down the corridor, tapping his cane thoughtfully. He was genuinely surprised: this was all completely out of left field.

Was it possible that Wilson was seeing Chris again? House mulled this all the way back to his office, and dismissed it as he arrived at the door. He saw Chase at the conference table, and changed his mind about going in. House headed for Wilson's office instead, grabbed a red lollipop from a bunch on Wilson's desk, sprawled on the couch and started to eat it.

Wilson came in a few minutes later, eying House cautiously, and sat behind his desk.

"Should you even be treating him?" House asked, without preamble, stretching his full height along the couch. "Medical ethics and all that."

Wilson put his hands on the desk and laughed incredulously. "Like you have the first idea what those are."

"You were in a relationship with him," House stated.

"I was in a relationship with _Chris,_" Wilson corrected.

"Which involved you fucking Chris's _friends,"_ House spoke frankly. "Including Prostate Pal there."

Wilson stared at him. "House!"

"It's true, isn't it?" House sucked on his lollipop.

Wilson took a deep breath. "It's not relevant. And it was well over a year ago. It's _over._ We're just friends now. Anyway, I'm being very careful to see that Linus gets appropriate treatment. He's my patient, but I've asked Brown to oversee the treatment too, give me a second opinion. Brown says he'd have done everything I've done."

"Except be fucked up the ass by the patient. But hey," House waved a hand, feeling magnanimous, the thought of being fucked up the ass bringing on pleasant recent memories. "Live and let live. I won't tell Cuddy if you won't."

"You," Wilson said, obviously seeking to change the subject, "have been in a good mood for weeks now. It's starting to unnerve me. It's not natural! Even Julie said the other day you hadn't been such a pain in the ass recently as usual. Why?"

"Cuddy's dropping by my office each morning to blow me," House said in a solemn tone.

"That's not even funny." Wilson threw his hands up.

"I've found that Chase puts out if you give him just a little bit of praise."

Wilson stared hard at House, then said, "I don't believe you."

"I'm fucking the new guy upstairs," House said, straight.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "House, please."

House rolled on seamlessly. "The escort agency is giving me a discount for bulk buying hookers."

"Now that might actually be true," Wilson said resignedly. "OK, fine, don't tell me."

House grinned and bit into the lollipop, tasting strawberry splinters on his tongue.

* * *

  
It was, of course, only a matter of time before Wilson and Gary ran into each other. Gary had picked up Wilson's significance in House's life immediately. House had never realized how much he mentioned Wilson in conversation until he found himself trying to avoid doing so. Gary asked a couple of pointed questions, but House told Gary in no uncertain terms to mind his own damn business.

Wilson, for his part, hadn't been in the habit of dropping by House's apartment so much since he'd married Julie, but he still did occasionally. And inevitably, there came an evening when he did so, and Gary was there too. It was late; Gary had wandered down a couple of hours before, claiming he was bored. House had suggested brightly that giving a blow job might relieve the monotony; they'd retreated to the bedroom, and Gary delivered, and got to fuck House in return.

House was lying back in post-orgasmic bliss, admiring the sight of Gary reduced to a very satisfactory panting twitching heap at the end of the bed, when there was a knock on the door. Then Wilson's voice came from outside; "Hey, House!"

"Fuck," House said, hearing the key turning in the lock.

Gary looked up with interest. "Wilson?"

"Yeah." House sat up and pulled on his bath robe. He would have told Gary to stay in the bedroom and keep his mouth shut, but he knew Gary wouldn't do that. There was no way out; they were going to have to meet.

Actually, it should be interesting. Suddenly House was curious to see what would happen. He struggled to his feet and limped into the living room. He found Wilson just taking off his coat.

"Wilson," House said. "I should have left the stethoscope on the door handle."

"What? Oh!" Wilson colored slightly, and looked around the room. "Hooker?"

House sat down on the couch and stretched out his leg. This was definitely going to be interesting. He looked up at Wilson with large innocent eyes. "Actually, no."

And Gary appeared from the direction of the bedroom. House had to hand it to him. Gary was fully dressed, except that he was deliberately just buttoning the top button of his jeans. His hair was carelessly mussed up; the post-coital impression was unmistakable.

Gary and Wilson looked at each other across the living room. Wilson looked like a startled deer, with his head back, eyes wide, ears flattened. Gary, deliberately not mirroring Wilson, had his head forward, hair flopped down over narrow eyes. House could see that as far as Gary was concerned, Wilson might as well have had COMPETITION tattooed on his forehead.

"You must be Wilson," Gary said silkily, leaning casually against a chair. House couldn't help but admire Gary's tone, which was outwardly friendly but with just enough disinterested disdain to be a real barb.

Wilson opened his mouth, shut it again, then looked accusingly at House.

House sighed loudly. "Wilson, this is Gary. He just moved into this building."

Wilson's mouth opened again, and he said slowly, "The new guy upstairs..."

"That's right," House said. "Aren't you the clever one?"

Wilson visibly pulled himself together, and spoke rapidly. "Nice to meet you, Gary. House--I'll see you at work tomorrow." He picked up his coat, turned and walked out with a reasonable amount of dignity. He shut the door firmly behind him, but didn't slam it.

Gary looked at House and shook his head.

"What?" House said irritably.

"House, you're a bastard," Gary said. "I'm going home."

* * *

  
"House, you're a bastard," Wilson said, sitting down opposite House's desk the following morning, and went on immediately, "So... tell me about him."

"He's a great lay," House offered promptly.

Wilson grimaced. "That's not quite the sort of thing I had in mind."

"He likes to top," House said, with an air of one trying to be helpful.

Wilson put his hands over his ears. "Way too much information. I was thinking more along of the lines of what does he do for a living, how come he's moved into your building, what's his favorite food?"

"Bor-ing," House pronounced loudly, but when Wilson continued to look at him, House relented a touch.

"He's an IT engineer for some faceless bloodsucking corporation. He moved 'cause his boyfriend dumped him and he had to find somewhere in a hurry. He lives on coffee and potato chips." Now he'd started, House found himself going on. "He's an even worse insomniac than I am. Works strange shifts and spends too much time online. Oh, and he has a cripple kink. Bet he couldn't believe his luck when he moved in and found me downstairs. "

"A cripple kink?" Wilson looked uncertain.

"His last boyfriend was in a wheelchair. Wheelchair boy fell in lurve with someone else, moved him in; Gary was the one to leave because their apartment had been made handicapped accessible." House paused, then added, "He doesn't know that I know that."

Wilson drummed his fingers on the table. "Could be awkward, him living upstairs, don't you think? I mean, if you broke up?"

House thought Wilson was being terribly diplomatic with the _if,_ or possibly just fishing. "He's only there on a short-term lease and it's not his dream apartment. He wants to buy somewhere nearer where he works, if he ever gets round to it."

"Right." Wilson took a deep breath. "Maybe we could all go out together sometime, go for a meal or something, get to know each other?"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" House spoke from instinct.

Wilson grinned a little. "Oh? I'd have thought you might go for it."

House had to admit the idea was tempting in a _watch-the-lab-rats-fight_ kind of way, but not worth it. "Only if you bring your wife," House retorted, knowing this would eliminate this idea once and for all. "We can double date."

Wilson looked so horrified that House nearly burst out laughing. "Wilson, Jesus, this is not the world's greatest love story. I'm fucking him. He's fucking me. That's it."

"Yeah?" Wilson looked like he wanted to believe.

"Yeah." House nodded. "The other day he went through my porn collection and rejected 95% of it on the grounds that there were women involved. For Chrissake." House threw his hands up.

Wilson was sufficiently intrigued by this anecdote to spill something back. "You know, Chris was the just the same. He once told me he really couldn't see the attraction of breasts."

House and Wilson shared a moment of mutual lack of incomprehension.

Wilson said eventually, "Actually, it's kinda sweet. Gary and Greg. Greg and Gary."

House gave Wilson a look that said _you had better not say that EVER--AGAIN_, and then a thought struck him, and he snorted with amusement. "You can talk. We should double date just for alliteration's sake. Greg n' Gary n' Jimmy n' Julie."

Wilson's face creased in revulsion, and then in laughter.

* * *

  
"So tell me about him," Gary said that evening. They were slumped on the couch together, Gary had his head on House's shoulder.

"Nope," House said, shutting his eyes, nuzzling silky fair hair.

"I've googled him--" Gary began.

House sighed loudly and opened his eyes. "James Wilson. My best friend, God only knows why. Known him for donkey's years. He's an oncologist at the hospital, made department head at an absurdly young age. Everyone thinks he's Mr. Nice Guy. On his third marriage."

Gary pondered this. "You don't think he's Mr. Nice Guy?"

"I know he's not Mr. Nice Guy."

"Are you fucking him?"

"No," House said truthfully. Not recently.

Gary thought about this, then said, "But you used to."

"If you're going to answer your own questions then you can go home and do it there," House said peevishly.

"Not yet." Gary slid a hand down towards House's crotch. House sucked in his breath sharply. "You were fucking him before he got married, right?"

"Either jerk me off or ask me questions, but not both at the same time," House snapped. "And guess which one I'd rather you did?"

Gary obviously wanted to ask more questions, but apparently decided to save them.

* * *

  
One day after work House had a hankering for a cappuccino that wasn't pumped straight out of a machine, which meant leaving the hospital. Wilson had had a good day, and was happy to leave at a reasonable time and accompany House to a nearby cafe.

"So how's Prostate Pal?" House asked, licking chocolate from around the rim of his cup. He already knew the answer, had found his own way of keeping tabs on the situation, but saw no harm in pretending he didn't.

"Linus is doing well, although finding the side effects pretty grim," Wilson said, sipping his own coffee. House watched Wilson's lips sucking up froth.

"Seeing much of Chris?" House asked casually. He felt Wilson's ankle under the table, resting against his foot. He pushed back.

"Not much." Wilson looked up and looked House right in the eye. "He visits, of course, but it's quite a drive for him."

"He still run that club by the beach?" House asked, struck by a sudden thought. Gary was always taking him to places he'd never been before. This was the kind of place he could take Gary. And maybe they'd run into Chris. That could be amusing.

"Uh huh." Wilson drank coffee, then licked foam off his lips. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, brushing knees. House wondered just how much sex Wilson was getting from his wife right now. _Not a lot_ would be his guess.

Wilson remarked idly that the new cute short administrator in HR (four feet eleven inches tall) was apparently doing a tall doctor in radiology (six foot six). This provided an amusing ten minutes of speculation as to how they managed to have sex and what positions would or would not be viable. At one point Wilson snorted cappuccino out of his nose with laughter. At another House leaned forward to impart a particularly ribald suggestion and Wilson leaned forward to hear it, and the two of them briefly touched foreheads over the table.

As Wilson sat back in his chair, smiling, his expression suddenly changed to surprised. "House--isn't that Gary over there?"

House looked around: it was indeed Gary, on his own, leaning against the counter, watching them. His expression was carefully blank.

"He been there long?" House said, also surprised.

"Don't know," Wilson said cautiously.

House waved at Gary, who came across the room towards them. He didn't bring a cup, which House interpreted as meaning he'd been standing there long enough to finish at least one coffee. Wilson started to gather up his things.

"Don't go on account of me," Gary said, arriving at their table. House again admired Gary's tone in front of Wilson, which was ultra-polite and yet with a slight accusatory hint. Beautifully calculated so as to get Wilson scooting away as quickly as possible.

"No, no, I have to get home anyway." Wilson pulled on his jacket. He looked at House. "Um, nice to see you again, Gary. See you tomorrow, House."

House looked back at Wilson, trying to read those deep brown eyes. Wilson gazed back for a few seconds. Then Wilson was gone, and Gary slid down into his seat.

House waited for a question like _what the fuck is going on between you two? _to which he was prepared to snap back _are you spying on me?_ but it appeared Gary wasn't ready to have that argument yet, and House, who was actually in a relatively good mood and not spoiling for a fight either, was glad.

Instead Gary chose to ignore Wilson altogether and said, "D'ya want to go out somewhere tonight?"

"Sure," House said, and remembering his earlier thought, added, "How about a drive down to the coast?"

* * *

  
It had been many years since House had been to Chris's club, but he remembered where it was and it looked much the same as ever. New paint job, perhaps. He told Gary that he knew Chris, the owner, and wondered inwardly how best to get them up to the inner sanctum, the bar upstairs. House had complete faith in himself to bag his way past the doorman, but wasn't so sure that Chris might not then chuck them out. House had no illusions; Chris and Wilson might or might not be able to be friends (_not_ was House's bet, although he was sure nothing had happened yet), but Chris had never done more than tolerate House.

The situation was unexpectedly resolved a different way, as no sooner had they walked inside they bumped right into someone else House knew. "House? Christ, it is you! Now what the hell are you doing here?"

Dan barely waited for a reply, but chatted on, greeting House like a long-lost friend. Which was kinda true, actually. Dan was an ex from a long time ago, and House didn't actually have many ex's. There was the _Lost Love of his Life_ (Stacy) and the _Soul mate,_ still hanging on in there (Wilson), and quite a few _Short relationships, Very Short relationships_ and _Hardly-even-one-night stands_ to look back on; but not many ex significant others. And especially not ones which had ended halfway amicably.

Gary hung back a little. Dan took one look, sized the situation up accurately, and started talking loudly about his own long-term boyfriend; Gary relaxed a little. House was pleased to have Dan there to get them up to the private bar, and even more pleased that he was chatting to Dan when Chris appeared, and thus avoided the possibility of being thrown out. House was amused to see Chris make a bee-line for Gary, and wondered if this would all get back to Wilson in due course.

Later Dan remarked to House over the poker table, "Gary seems like a good guy."

"Hmm," House said, only half-concentrating. He had one eye on Gary talking to Chris at the bar.

"So how's Wilson?" Dan asked ultra-casually, almost in an undertone.

"Married," House said brutally, and drew on his cigar.

"Huh. Again?" Dan considered this for a moment, staring at his cards. "What a senseless waste."

House grunted in agreement, and was intrigued at that moment to see Chris give Gary a truly murderous glare.

* * *

  
At the back of his mind, House knew it wouldn't last. How could it? How could a bright hot man with the balls that Gary had, not afraid of anyone (including House)--how could someone like that be satisfied by surreptitiously hanging around with a bad-tempered cripple?

The evening it all came crashing down, House had arranged to meet Gary in a bar. Wilson wandered into House's office near the end of the day, and House, feeling expansive, said, "I'm going drinking with Gary. Wanna come?"

Wilson looked at House a trifle uncertainly, then apparently decided House wasn't serious. "Well, you know I'd love to. All that awkwardness, I hate to miss it. But um, I'm already busy tonight. I'm having dinner with Chris."

"You're having dinner with Chris?" House echoed incredulously. "The guy who practically rapes you with his eyes each time he sees you?"

"House!" Wilson said reprovingly. "He's a friend. That's all." He paused, then added defensively, "He was upset about Linus."

"Crap, he's needy as well," House diagnosed. "You are so going to end up in bed with him."

"House, for God's sake!" Wilson glared at House. "It's just dinner!"

Wilson left, closing the door behind him with more than necessary force. House shut down his computer, grabbed his jacket, and headed off to meet Gary. But House couldn't stop thinking about Wilson, having dinner with Chris across town. It bothered him a lot more than he'd immediately realized. And this annoyed him, because fuck it, so what if Wilson ended up having sex with Chris? What did he care? (Of course, House knew the answer to that already. If Wilson was going to cheat on his wife with _anyone_...)

House hoped that a few drinks would put it out of his head, but found instead the thought growing and mutating. His chest started to feel tight as he thought about Wilson and Chris, eating together, flirting over the table, going back to a hotel room afterwards. Wilson and Chris, seeing each other again. Wilson falling back into Chris's social life down at the beach with all Chris's friends. Wilson, divorcing Julie and going to live with--

"What the fuck is wrong with you tonight?" Gary was looking at him oddly.

"Nothing," House snapped, and tried to think of something to say, something to talk about. He couldn't manage it. Couldn't sit and be sociable, even with someone who gave every appearance of liking him and wanting to be with him. House could feel himself poisoning this relationship, driving Gary away every passing moment with his silence. And was somehow powerless to do anything about it.

"Patient die on you?" Gary asked, seeking a reason.

"No," House barked.

Gary looked at him and blew out a breath, ruffling the hair hanging over his forehead. He reached out and took House's hand gently. "Talk to me."

House could have taken criticism or abuse, but the kindness, the attempt to understand, was too much. He could feel his stony facade start to crack, and shut his eyes in an effort to hold together. "Nothing to say."

"That is so not true," Gary said, and an edge entered his voice. "Why won't you let me in, House? Why can't you open up for just one second?"

There was a long pause. The House felt Gary's fingers arch and tense on his palm. "It's Wilson, isn't it."

House couldn't answer that. He kept his eyes shut and kept breathing, and that was all he could cope with.

"I'm not like Chris," Gary said, his tone very even and calm. "I don't share."

House opened dry lips to mutter, "I'm not fucking Wilson--"

"You might as well be." Gary's fingers curled, his nails scraping House's hand. "Seems to me you're just waiting for Wilson's marriage to implode on him. And then you'll be there for him."

House opened his eyes and looked at Gary. Gary looked back at him squarely, and whatever Gary saw in House's eyes apparently convinced him he was right. Gary broke eye contact, let go of House's hand, and sat back in his chair. House sat back in his own chair, his throat tight.

"Which is the biggest waste of _fucking--time_," Gary continued, a note of frustrated anger entering his voice. "Because of course his marriage will end. But he didn't end up with you the last two times, and it won't be any different this time."

House's knuckles were white as he grasped the arm of the chair. "Shut the fuck up."

"I'm not hanging around until you to realize that," Gary said flatly. "You want to be with me, you be with me. But you have to give up waiting for Wilson. It's pathetic and pointless, and I am not fucking well putting up with it anymore."

"You better fuck right off then," House said, quietly but without hesitation.

Gary stared at House for a moment. "So that's that, then."

"I guess so." House bit the words out.

Gary stood up, picked up his jacket, and walked out of the bar. He didn't look back.

House stayed still for a long time, still gripping the chair arm as if his life depended on it.


	3. Wilson

Wilson gave the last nail a final tap, and stood back to admire his handiwork. Julie had asked him to put up shelves in the guest room ages ago, it was good to have gotten round to it at last. And they were damn nearly straight, too.

It was nice to see something he'd made, up on the wall. Wilson sometimes felt the place didn't have enough of his own stamp on it; Julie had previously lived in this house with her ex-husband. Also he sometimes slept in the guest room himself, if he was back especially late after work, or after having been out with House (Julie complained when he woke her up, crawling in late beside her--it was easier to go and crash in the guest room).

Julie had brought him in a soda half an hour ago, before she went out shopping. He picked up the glass, took a sip, and wandered out through the house to the scrap of garden out the back. He stood for a moment, sipping the drink and enjoying the springtime sunshine. This was what it was all about, surely... cozy domesticity, having a nice home, sharing it with his wife. Even though she wasn't here right now.

He wondered whether to give House a call, and decided against it. He'd told House he'd be busy with these shelves this weekend. In fact, he half-expected House to barge in at some point to inspect the shelves, probably reaching up to tap them with his cane and knocking the whole edifice down in the process. Wilson could picture the scene well, envisage Julie's annoyance, and himself sighing and having to do all the work again.

When the weekend passed, and House didn't show, Wilson found himself two parts relieved to one part disappointed.

 

* * *

  
Wilson walked back into the hospital after his coffee with Chris, taking slow, heavy steps. His mind was whirling. Chris, back in his life, appearing at the hospital of all places. And Linus--with cancer. Wilson felt very deeply sorry about that.

He wasn't nearly so sure what he felt about Chris. They'd always got on, had chemistry, clicked right from the start--Wilson could still feel that. But he wasn't in nearly the same place he'd been when they'd split up, a year and a half ago. He'd been devastated when Chris had broken up with him, absolutely devastated.... but he'd gotten over it. And he had Julie now.

He headed towards his office, wondering whether to forestall the inevitable and tell House what had happened up front. House's office was empty, though. There was a man with longish hair sitting on his own in the conference room next door, looking rather sorry for himself; Wilson recognized House's newest member of staff, who had only started last week, Robert Chase.

Wilson pushed the door open. "Hey, Chase. House around?"

"Um, no, Dr. Wilson." Chase said, very politely. "We diagnosed our patient yesterday and he doesn't seem to have come in today at all."

"House does usually figure he's due the rest of the week off, in this situation," Wilson said kindly. "He'll be back when he's ready, or when Cuddy notices he's gone and hauls him back in."

"I guess the others knew that, as they're not here either." Chase looked around the empty conference room. House's other two staff had both been with him for a number of years, too long. They were probably out at job interviews: House and Wilson had a bet on that both would have left within six months (House) or a year (Wilson).

"Should I be doing something?" Chase asked, rather forlornly.

Wilson had a newspaper under his arm, which he'd already read; he handed it to Chase. "Crossword?"

Chase smiled and took the paper. Wilson shut the door and walked on to his office, deciding it was probably for the best that House hadn't been around. House could find out about Linus and Chris in his own time.

* * *

  
Wilson was standing in Linus's room studying a chart when the patient remarked, "I didn't want to come here, you know."

Wilson looked at him, startled. Linus had been his patient for a week now and this comment was completely out of the blue.

Linus clarified, "I mean... I didn't want to make your life difficult by me turning up like this, especially with Chris in tow. It was Chris; he was adamant that there should be nothing but the best for me, and you were the best. And the fact that he'd happened to have a torrid affair with you shouldn't stand in the way."

That made Wilson smile.

"He was worried, actually, that you wouldn't take me," Linus rattled on.

"Linus, of course I would. I mean, of course I did." It had never even occurred to Wilson not to take Linus as a patient. Any awkwardness with Chris notwithstanding. "Though I was wondering, have I upset Chris? He seems to be avoiding me."

"My dear boy," Linus said gently, focusing shrewd eyes on Wilson's face. "Chris is avoiding you because he's afraid he's going to jump you. And you might turn him down, which would upset him greatly."

Wilson stared at Linus for a minute, trying to tell if he was serious. Linus looked serious.

All Wilson could think of in reply was a ridiculous, "But... but _he _dumped _me_."

"Yes, but not because he wasn't in love with you, and certainly not because he wasn't in lust with you. He broke up with you because the whole Edward thing was just never going to go away while you were around." Linus paused, then added, "He's moved on a lot since then."

"So have I," Wilson said, with emphasis. He felt his stomach clench at the thought of getting mixed up with Chris again.

Wilson still didn't really know how he felt about Chris now, but he did know that he just couldn't get sucked into all this again. He was married now. Okay, so things weren't perfect with Julie. But they'd gotten through a year together, things were definitely better than they had been with either Cath or Bonnie at this point. They could make it, he knew they could. But not if he ended up involved with Chris again.

"Hey, he's not getting any encouragement from me," Linus said hastily, raising his hands. "Stay away from the married men, that's always been my advice. Not that he takes a blind bit of notice, of course, when his dick says otherwise."

"Right." Wilson nodded. He decided he would have to talk to Chris, however difficult it might be. Let him know they should just be friends.

Linus looked at Wilson carefully, and went on, "And that goes double for married men with significant others already hanging around. How is House, anyway? He works here too, doesn't he? I haven't seen him."

"Oh yes. Um, he's fine, he's good, actually." Wilson spoke in a tone of surprise. House had been going through a good patch for quite a few weeks now. He seemed relaxed and upbeat, and had hardly made demands on Wilson's time and attention at all. Wilson hadn't quite figured out why, yet. "He doesn't know you're here yet, but he'll find out. Don't be surprised if he bursts in and disturbs you at some point."

Linus and House had only met once, and Wilson remembered it with a twinge of mirth. After Chris and Wilson had split up, Wilson had gone back to Chris's house a few days later to get various items he had left there; House had gone along for the ride (and, Wilson suspected, to make sure he and Chris didn't fall into each other's arms again). As it turned out, Chris had been deliberately absent on the day, but Linus was there, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wanting to say goodbye to Wilson. Linus had taken one look at House and said to Wilson, "So this is your man in Princeton? My, look at those baby blue eyes." House had not been amused.

"He's busy breaking in a new member of staff at the moment," Wilson added. "Australian guy, an intensivist. That's taking up a lot of his time, always does at first."

"An intensivist? A doctor who... helps you be intense?"

"A specialist in intensive care," Wilson clarified, smiling.

"It takes all sorts." Linus stretched out his arms and yawned.

"It certainly does," Wilson agreed.

* * *

  
When House found out about Linus, Wilson was highly suspicious about how well House had taken it. Chris and Linus thought it was indifference; Wilson knew it wasn't. House was distracted by something at the moment, and for once, it wasn't a medical mystery.

The night Wilson found out what it was, he had stayed late at work for a good reason; he'd got chatting with one of his favorite long-term patients, a little old lady who had been fighting off cancer almost as long as he had been at Princeton Plainsboro. She was in remission again, and he was pleased. And Julie was out with a girlfriend that evening, so he didn't even need to worry about being late back home.

He decided to drop by and see House on a whim; sharing a four-pack of beer in front of the TV would be a good way to end the day. He let himself in with no more than a casual, "Hey, House!"

And realized within a minute that he'd made a mistake, as House came limping out of the bedroom in his bathrobe.

Wilson's first thought was that it was rather early for House to have gone to bed. This was immediately replaced by concern that House was ill--but House was standing there and he looked okay. Actually, he looked more than okay. He looked... sated.

"Wilson," House said. "I should have left the stethoscope on the door handle."

"What? Oh!" Wilson felt himself blush. It had been a while since they'd used that code. Well, that explained the satisfied gleam in those blue eyes. Wilson supposed it was just as well he hadn't arrived any earlier. He looked around the room for signs of someone else. "Hooker?"

House sat down on the couch and stretched out his leg. The bathrobe fell slightly to one side, exposing a ridge of dark thigh; Wilson immediately knew it wasn't a hooker; House wasn't above exposing his bad leg to people for the shock value, but rarely let it show as casually as that in front of anyone he wasn't completely relaxed with.

House looked up at Wilson, his expression fairly buzzing with anticipation, and confirmed Wilson's guess. "Actually, no."

Wilson didn't have time to process the implications of this before another man came padding out of the bedroom.

He was about the same age as House and just as tall--actually, taller than House, and House was tall even discounting the limp. The man was wearing blue jeans which he was rather ostentatiously just buttoning up, and a plain dark T-shirt. He had a rather unruly mane of fair hair and looked, Wilson thought ridiculously, rather like a lion. A lion who had just feasted on fresh meat.

He had greenish eyes that looked Wilson up and down, then fastened on Wilson's face and didn't shift.

"You must be Wilson," the stranger said, leaning casually against a chair. His tone was light but Wilson immediately detected hostility--very faint, but unmistakable. And deliberate.

This guy knew who he was. Why the hell didn't he know who this guy was?

House, the bastard, was sitting watching with such evident enjoyment that he might as well have been munching popcorn. Wilson glared at House until House sighed and made the introduction. "Wilson, this is Gary. He just moved into this building."

"The new guy upstairs..." Wilson said, hardly realizing he was speaking out loud. Fuck it. House _had_ mentioned this guy--but in such a way Wilson had thought it was a joke. That was so House. Playing his stupid mind games--

"That's right," House said. "Aren't you the clever one?"

Wilson would gladly have punched House at that moment, but felt the need to put up a good show in front of House's new boyfriend. (Fuck. _Boyfriend)_. Wilson gathered his wits about him, and his voice, when he spoke, sounded reassuringly controlled. "Nice to meet you, Gary. House--I'll see you at work tomorrow."

Wilson picked up his coat, turned and walked out, shutting the door firmly but gently behind him.

He drove straight home, and it wasn't until he was inside his own front door (and thank goodness Julie was out) that he allowed himself to falter, and crumble. He poured himself a drink and sat alone in his living room. He berated himself for dropping by without calling, but was simultaneously glad that he had. Otherwise when would House have told him, the bastard? Which made Wilson realize uncomfortably that he really should have told House about Chris. Not that the situation was the same but--anyway...

He tossed and turned that night for a long time before he got to sleep. And not because Julie was late back, either, although she was indeed very late back.

* * *

  
A week or so after Wilson found out about Gary, he came into Linus's room one day to find Chase sitting chatting to the patient. Chase looked slightly embarrassed to have been found there, and excused himself hastily on Wilson's arrival.

"Such a nice young man," Linus said, settling back into the pillows. Side effects from the radiotherapy were starting to bite, and Linus looked exhausted, but cheerful. "He's been dropping by to chat quite a bit, very kind of him. House obviously doesn't work him hard enough, he seems to have lots of free time. I told him to drop by my place if he's ever down by the coast. He'd go down a storm at one of my parties."

Wilson, who knew exactly what Linus's parties were like, snorted in amusement. "Um, it may not be his kind of thing."

"Nonsense," Linus declared. He's far too pretty to be straight. Exclusively so, anyway."

Wilson smiled and picked up the chart at the end of Linus's bed. He had a good idea of why Chase was hanging around Linus's room a lot, and it was only partly Linus's personal magnetism.

He went to find House after he'd finished seeing Linus, and found House in his office frowning at his computer screen, playing chess online.

"Hey," Wilson said, dropping down into a chair on the other side of House's desk. "I hear you're not working Chase hard enough."

"He's working hard," House said, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

"Yes, he's keeping you informed about Linus. And Chris, and me." Wilson wasn't annoyed, just pleased to have found out. Such a House-like way of keeping tabs on the situation. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing. Him and your prostate pal are quite happy to yak for hours together without any encouragement from me. Check!" House pointed a triumphant finger at the screen.

Wilson leaned forward, curious, and peered at the chess board on the screen. _Gray_Horse_ was playing _killer_queen_. Wilson wasn't very good at chess, not nearly good enough to give House a decent game. But he knew how to play, and the position looked close. "Haven't seen you play chess for a while."

"Well, it's no fun with you," House retorted, and looked at Wilson with a glint in his eye. "I'm playing Gary. He's bored at work too."

Wilson gulped a little. "Really?" He looked at the screen again, and had to say it. "It looks like you're well matched."

House gazed at Wilson. "Yup, we've drawn two games and won one each so far." The corner of his mouth curled up. "You _were_ talking about chess, weren't you?"

Wilson's mouth was dry. "Just glad you've found someone who can... give you a good game."

House's stare was unrelenting, and Wilson knew House was trying to figure out if Wilson really was glad, or lying. Wilson held the gaze, and hoped his churning innards weren't actually making a noise. The computer beeped at House.

"My move," House said. He looked back at the screen, and his attention focused swiftly on the game. He scowled. "Fuck. I didn't see that. The cunning bastard."

Wilson got up abruptly and left the room.

* * *

  
Wilson was terribly curious about Gary, but didn't feel inclined to linger and chat on the occasions he bumped into him with House. The thought of watching House and Gary bantering was just too galling.

However there was one occasion where he actually got to talk to Gary for a few minutes on his own. Wilson had had a long day in his office, and at the end he put down his pen and decided to sit back in his chair and just close his eyes for a few minutes.

A couple hours later, he woke up, rather groggy. The room was now dark, but there was some faint noise and light coming through the window from the balcony outside. The balcony itself was dark, but dimly lit by light coming through from House's office. Wilson peered at the glass door; he could see House.

_Christ_\--House wasn't alone. Suddenly Wilson was wide awake.

Gary was there, leaning back against the railings, partially hidden from Wilson's view because House was standing very close to him. House's cane was propped up against a wall and he was balancing partly by gripping onto Gary's left hip; Wilson could just see House's thumb resting inside the waistband of Gary's jeans.

The window was open a crack, and Wilson heard House say, "--ten minutes."

The start and end of Gary's next sentence was muffled by House's mouth. "--don't fucking appreciate being treated like a _dirty little secret-_-"

"Ten minutes," House repeated, and stepped back slightly. He was still grasping Gary's waist. "Til I figure out what's happened to my patient. If you can't wait ten minutes out here, just go without me." House shrugged. "But you know you'd spend as long satisfying your nicotine habit, anyway."

"Ten minutes," Gary agreed, and reached into a pocket, taking out a packet of cigarettes.

House nodded, grabbed his cane, and headed into his office.

Wilson heard the _click_ of a lighter, saw a brief flare. He could now see Gary clearly, still leaning against the railings, drawing on the cigarette. He looked... _good_, Wilson realized, feeling a twinge in his gut. Gary was wearing a heavy casual shirt that bulked him out slightly; it suited him. He also looked like he hadn't shaved recently, and blond stubble peppered his chin.

Wilson abruptly realized that he had possibly a one-time only chance to talk to Gary without House being around. He didn't really know what he wanted to say; but it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. Wilson waited a moment, then reached out and switched his desk lamp on. Gary turned his head to see where the light was coming from; Wilson got up and headed out onto the balcony.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound cheerful and friendly.

"Hey." Gary's tone was distinctly cautious.

"Come to see where House works?" It was a stupid thing to say but Wilson couldn't think of anything better.

"We were on our way to a gig; he got a 911 page about his patient." Gary flicked ash onto the ground.

"What sort of gig?" Wilson asked, genuinely curious.

Gary relaxed a little as he answered. It was a local rock band he'd heard in a bar a while ago. They'd been selling CDs out of the trunk of their car, and he'd bought one. On hearing the band was coming back to Princeton, he'd suggested to House that they go, and lent him the CD.

"And he liked it?" Wilson asked, faintly surprised.

Gary grinned a little. "No. He called it _crap rock_. But he told me why in such detail, he must've listened to it a lot. And he enjoyed whining about it enough to let himself be dragged along."

Wilson was silent, absorbing what Gary had said. The specifics of the band and the music were not important; but Gary's reading of House definitely was. It hadn't really occurred to Wilson that House might have met someone who _got _him, at least partially. Someone who knew when to push, when to take things at face value, and when not to.

Gary was looking at him quizzically, but Wilson was saved replying as House reappeared at that moment at his office balcony door. He raised an eyebrow at the sight of Wilson, but addressed Gary. "Patient's fine. Idiot staff being clueless. I should fire the lot of them, starting with the Dumbo from Down Under. Come on, let's go. Crap rockers are calling."

Gary dropped his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. He levered himself away from the railings with an elbow, and walked into House's office. He didn't say goodbye to Wilson, or acknowledge him in any way.

House hesitated in the doorway, glancing back at Wilson. His blue eyes shone in the dim light, questioning. Wilson looked back with equanimity and tilted his head slightly; _go_. House still lingered, and Wilson fluttered a hand slightly; _go_. Eventually House nodded, stepped backwards, and closed the balcony door. A minute later the light went off in House's office, sending the balcony into almost darkness. A thin sliver of light remained from the desk light in Wilson's office.

Wilson stood for a while, breathing the night air, mulling over what he'd seen and learned. This relationship was not just about the sex, whatever House said.

Whatever Gary was, Wilson decided swiftly, he was not Stacy. In more ways than the obvious. Wilson remembered very well what House had been like when Stacy had come into his life. _House in love. _Goggle-eyed, adoring, full of big romantic notions and gestures--Wilson hadn't seen it with anyone else before or since. House had sealed all that off in a separate compartment after Stacy. Although Wilson occasionally got a glimpse inside, House just didn't let his guard down with anyone else.

However, Gary looked like he was closer to it than anyone else Wilson could recall.

* * *

  
Wilson didn't often argue with Julie; she tended to ignore him or vanish when she was annoyed with him. But after a few long working days, some of which stretched into the nights (including some hours spent reassuring Linus, who was five weeks into the radiotherapy, and suffering badly), he arrived back late after she'd cooked a special dinner, and they had an argument.

Incredibly, House wasn't brought up once. Wilson found this depressing: apparently his marriage was tanking, and he couldn't even blame House this time.

He left home and headed for House's apartment on autopilot, but there was no answer to his knock. He let himself in cautiously, only too aware of what he'd found last time he'd visited unannounced. But the apartment was empty: House was out. He debated whether to call House on his cell, and decided not to bother; he sat down on the couch to wait for House to come back.

He fell asleep, and was abruptly woken a couple of hours later by a key turning in the front door. By now it was night, and House's living room had turned dark except for a single strip of light through a gap in the curtains. Wilson blinked sleepily, and looked towards the door as it opened and light peeked in. Then in came House, and he was followed closely by Gary.

Wilson froze at the sight of Gary, and this was a mistake because it meant that they didn't see him, lying still on the couch in the darkness.

Gary shut the door behind them, and House turned towards Gary. Wilson saw House's face clearly in the thin strip of light, and it was like a punch in the gut. House's eyes were flashing warmth and--fuck it--something very close to _affection_; he looked, for a second or two, _really_ happy. And then Gary moved towards House, and Wilson just spotted Gary's expression too before their mouths met and blocked the view; Gary looked... doting. Genuinely affectionate. Towards House.

And now they were kissing, and the intensity of it was just painful to see. Raw horny desire, sure. But more than that--passion, care, tenderness. House's hand looped upwards around Gary's head and his fingers raked Gary's mop of hair. Gary put one arm around House's waist, clutching House's shirt in a fistful of cotton; the other hand up at House's collar, stroking House's neck.

Wilson couldn't sit there and just watch. The sight of them making out was already bringing on a wave of nausea, and the thought of watching them fuck actually made Wilson want to retch. He sat up on the couch slightly, and coughed. "Ahem..."

House and Gary broke apart more quickly than Wilson would have thought possible, and House spun round sharply.

"_Wilson!_ What the fuck are you doing, hiding here in the dark?" Blue eyes glared furious laser beams.

"I'm sorry, I fell asleep," Wilson said lamely. He was aware that Gary's face now clearly read _DIE WILSON YOU BASTARD_. "I had a bit of a fight with Julie and..."

"She throw you out?" House's expression changed slightly; he temporarily forgot his annoyance in curiosity about the question.

"No, it wasn't that bad," Wilson said hastily. "I just wanted to get out of the house for a bit. Um, I guess I'll go now--"

"Sleep on the couch if you want," House cut in, with an air of condescension, and he looked round at Gary. "_We're_ taking the bedroom."

And House strode off towards the bedroom. Gary followed, chin in the air, purposefully not looking at Wilson.

Alone, Wilson covered his face with his hands, hot with embarrassment. He heard a _thud_ from inside the bedroom--House's cane hitting the floor, he thought--and immediately realized he couldn't possibly sleep on the couch if House and Gary were having sex in the bedroom a few feet away. He hastened to put on his shoes and his jacket, but couldn't help but hear a few more sounds before he left.

Out in the street, he breathed in fresh air as he walked, and tried to get his head round what the hell he was feeling. House was happy. House was apparently in a fulfilling physical relationship with someone who cared about him. Why should that be so hard to take? Shouldn't he be pleased for his friend?

He wasn't. He was upset and hurt and--_damnit_\--jealous as hell. It wasn't rational, but he felt robbed. As if a large House-shaped vacuum had appeared in his life.

And he couldn't do anything about it. Not a damn thing. He had no right whatsoever to interfere in House's relationships. It wasn't even like they'd been fucking recently. Not since he'd gotten married to Julie.

When he'd been going out with Chris, had House felt like _this?_

* * *

  
The dinner invitation to Chris was spur-of-the-moment; Wilson genuinely dismayed by seeing Chris upset, trying to offer comfort. And the invitation was not at all connected to constantly thinking about House and Gary, no, not at all. And certainly not connected to the fact that Julie was away for a couple of days.

Wilson knew perfectly well, of course, that Chris still had some feelings for him; but he thought he could cope with that. A really nice meal, a decent bottle of wine... it would cheer Chris up. They'd have a good time, just like the old days. No, not like the old days. Well, if it turned out a little like the old days, so what? It would be a distraction... a distraction from House and bloody _Gary._..

The discovery that House was out with Gary the same evening should not have made any difference to anything. But somehow it did.

Over dinner Wilson and Chris talked a lot about Linus, initially. Chris had genuine worries and queries; Wilson was kind and comforting and encouraging. Linus was doing very well, was almost at the end of the radiotherapy course. He'd be able to go home in a week's time. The side effects would fade, and if it had gone well, he might not have to have more treatment for a long time.

Wilson could see Chris responding positively to the reassurance, knew he was saying all the right things. Years of experience made it easy. But Wilson also knew he was operating partly on autopilot, relying on the stock phrases. Part of his brain was tied inextricably up with House; House and Gary, out somewhere on the other side of town, having fun, chatting, laughing together--going home together afterwards, to their apartment block they both lived in, to House's apartment because it was closer, and once inside--

"Wilson," Chris asked. "What's up? Tell me."

Wilson started to shake his head, felt his mouth forming the word _nothing_. He should not be preoccupied with such silly, jealous emotions, after all. He had a wife at home and a friend across the table, for goodness sake.

But goddamnit, he wanted to talk about it, and Chris was the only person in the world who might understand. "I found out why House is in such a good mood," Wilson admitted.

"Oh?" Chris raised his eyebrows.

"He's... seeing someone."

"Oh!"

"Guy called Gary. Just moved in upstairs." Wilson played with the food on his plate.

"I've met him," Chris said, rather diffidently, and Wilson looked at him in surprise. "They came to my club, couple of weeks ago," Chris amplified. "You could have knocked me down with a feather."

"You've seen them together?" Wilson looked at Chris, suddenly full of questions and not knowing how to express them. "What were they like? What did they do?"

"They had a few drinks, played a bit of poker," Chris said cautiously. "Stayed a couple of hours, perhaps. Um... they seemed to get on well. They were... close."

"Yeah." Not surprising to have that confirmed. Wilson thought again of House and Gary in House's apartment, of the warmth and tenderness that had been flowing between them. Wilson drummed his fingers on the table, then said unexpectedly even to himself, "Chris, it's fucking killing me."

Chris sat still for a moment, then said gently, "Go on."

"I know, it's pathetic!" Wilson heard his voice rise, and strove to bring it down. "I'm married, and I'm not walking away from that, so what's it got to do with me? It's none of my business! It's his life, and God knows I want him to be happy, as far as he can, but... but not with _him_."

Chris sat and appeared to ponder for a moment. "You should tell House how you feel."

Wilson's laugh had more than a touch of hysteria in it. "Chris, you know what he's like! Anyway, I can't try and break up his relationship, what would that make me?" Wilson swallowed convulsively, and added quietly, "He never did that to us."

"No," Chris agreed, and looked at the table. "He didn't."

Despair led Wilson on to admit, "I don't know why he didn't. He's the one who usually acts like a selfish jealous possessive son-of-a-bitch."

Chris considered this for a moment, then said in a gentle tone, "He wanted you to be happy."

This so completely hit the nail on the head that Wilson was rendered silent. House was only too well aware of his own emotional limitations; always had been, but especially so post-Stacy. House had seen that Wilson had cared for and needed Chris. Naturally House had moaned and whined about it, and made quite sure Wilson didn't neglect himself; but also, he'd let it happen. He hadn't burned down Wilson's relationship with Chris.

The least Wilson could do was the same.

Wilson was dwelling in introspection when his cell rang. He took it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. He flipped the phone open. "House?"

Across the table, Chris watched with a tilt of his chin.

"Need a ride," a voice mumbled on the other end of the line.

The tone and timbre of those three small words were enough for Wilson to immediately grasp that this wasn't House screwing around; this was House in need of help. He recalled that House was supposed to be out with Gary. Wilson would have liked to ask lots of things, but settled for, "Where are you?"

House muttered the name of a bar Wilson had never heard of before, and some blurred directions.

"I'll be with right with you," Wilson said, and snapped the cell shut. He looked up at Chris. "House. I have to go..."

"Of course you do," Chris said, with just a small hint of resignation.

Wilson felt for his wallet, extracting a small fistful of notes to cover the meal. He felt a small guilty rush at abandoning Chris. But Chris seemed all right. "I'll see you at the hospital tomorrow?" Wilson asked, putting the money on the table and standing up with an apologetic smile. He left without waiting for an answer.

* * *

  
Twenty minutes later, Wilson arrived at the bar, and looked around cautiously. It was quiet; the sparse clientele were all men, and House was there, on his own, sitting very still and staring down at a table. Wilson felt a twinge of relief; House looked okay, physically, anyway.

He walked over and sat in the chair opposite. "Hey, House."

"Hey." House's voice was a whisper, and he didn't look up.

"Where's Gary?" Wilson asked tentatively.

House looked to one side, and muttered, "We broke up."

"Oh." Wilson nearly said _I'm sorry _out of sheer politeness, but didn't. He felt relief, but was careful not to show it. "What happened?"

House unexpectedly turned and looked Wilson directly in the eye. "The fucker made me _choose_."

"Choose? Choose what?--Oh." Wilson cottoned on. "You mean between him and--" He pointed towards himself.

House nodded tightly.

Wilson had no idea what to say. It occurred to him that it could easily have been himself in the same position a year ago, if Chris had forced him to choose. He wondered why Chris never had. Presumably because Chris had known exactly what would happen.

House was sitting very still, as if he'd just been stabbed, and was avoiding movement in case blood and gore spilled out everywhere.

"Maybe he'll change his mind," Wilson offered lamely, not wanting this to happen in the slightest, but trying to offer comfort anyway.

House swatted a hand through the air. "It's irrelevant. He crossed the line."

Wilson took a deep breath. "Let's go."

They didn't discuss the situation any more as Wilson drove them back to House's apartment. Wilson parked outside and turned the engine off.

"Shouldn't you be going home to your wife?" House muttered as Wilson got out of the car with him.

"She's away for a few days," Wilson said, and House tilted his chin in acknowledgment.

House's apartment was dark and still, and Wilson couldn't help but be aware of the ceiling above, wondered if Gary was in. Wilson watched House kick off his sneakers and shrug off his jacket in a series of small, tight movements that screamed _pain_; but not the usual kind of pain, not the leg pain. It was like House had an open wound, large and raw and bloody. In a few hours he'd have stuck sticking plaster over it, and by tomorrow he'd have grown another layer of skin, but right now it was just new and shockingly painful.

"I'm going to bed," House said tersely, and walked off towards the bedroom without even saying goodnight.

Wilson stood for a long minute, ruminating, then followed.

He found House lying on the bed, still wearing his T-shirt and jeans, eyes open and staring at the wall. Wilson sat down next to House and ruffled House's hair gently. House groaned a little, then said in a thick voice, "Don't fucking tease me—"

In answer, Wilson bent down to take off his own shoes, then lay down carefully next to House, facing him. Vivid blue eyes looked back at him, cautious, uncertain. Wilson reached out, put an arm around House's shoulder, and leaned in to kiss him.

They hadn't kissed for a long while, not properly, not for months; not since Wilson's last wedding in Vegas. The odd snatched affectionate peck. House had nibbled on Wilson's ear a few weeks ago in an empty clinic exam room. Wilson had kissed the back of House's neck one intimate moment in the rain out of their balcony at work. All savored, but none leading anywhere.

This was different. Long and slow and sweet, gentle mouth-to-mouth. Wilson felt House shake a little under his touch at first, and ran his hand up and down House's arm, tenderly stroking, willing House to relax. _Gary's gone but I'm here._

House curled a hesitant hand round the back of Wilson's neck. It tugged at Wilson's heart.

Wilson was gentle back, running fingers tenderly through House's wiry hair. _I know I haven't been here much recently but.. I'm here now_.

They spent what seemed like hours kissing softly, lips sliding gently against each other, tongues carefully exploring. The intimacy was overwhelming; Wilson's brain flooded with shared knowledge, their long past, familiarity so intense that it was almost painful.

After a while, House upped the pressure on Wilson's mouth and moved slightly forward. Wilson felt a huge surge of desire in his chest; House up close to him, body resting a few inches away on the bed, kissing him fiercely now, with desire writ large in every tiny movement. Wilson responded, arching and stretching along with each move of House's, kissing back, pressing back, pulling House close. For a few seconds Wilson didn't ever want to let go; wanted to keep House tucked right up against him here, now, forever.

Wilson could feel House's erection through two sets of pants pressing hard against his thigh, and his own cock hardened in response. They didn't talk, enjoying silent agreement as each of them wriggled out of their clothes. House reached for the condoms and lube in his bedside drawer (conveniently to hand for use with Gary, Wilson thought, and immediately expelled the thought from his mind). Wilson slicked himself up, straddled House, and lowered himself onto House's cock.

It _hurt_, because it had been far too fucking long since they'd done this; Wilson screwed his eyes shut and breathed and tried to relax. And yet it didn't, because this was House, and House was murmuring, gently, reassuringly; nothing coherent, just meaningless soothing sounds. Wilson reached out and touched House's face, running his fingers over House's forehead, nose, chin; stubble prickled his fingertips.

House grunted and bucked his hips. Wilson leaned forward and kept as low and as close to House's sweaty, heaving chest as possible. He clenched his buttocks while planting a series of brief but passionate kisses onto House's face, neck, collarbone. Arching his own hips and bending his knees, Wilson took House's thrusts as deep as he possibly could, reveling in the feeling of House's cock, right up inside him--it had been _too fucking long_ since he'd felt this and God he had no idea why they'd stopped doing this anymore.

House came quickly, with a strangled gasp, clutching at Wilson's arms and back, pulling him close. Then Wilson felt House's hand on his cock, fumbling, then rubbing and rolling. Wilson eased into his own climax, spurting over House's chest, breathing in a series of small sharp exhalations into House's mouth.

The two of them lay together for several minutes, still locked together, neither of them wanting to move and break whatever spell had been cast. Eventually House sighed and pulled out, Wilson letting out a small _oof _as he did so. And then they continued to lie there, heedless of the mess around them.

House would never let him say it, Wilson thought as he leaned his face into House's chest, but that wasn't just fucking, that was _lovemaking_. A long, slow, sweet affirmation of the bond between them.

Later Wilson remembered what Chris had said; _you should tell him how you feel._ He hadn't, but it didn't matter. Didn't matter in the slightest, because House knew already, and Wilson knew House felt just the same.

* * *

  
**Epilogue**

Chris watched Wilson walk out of the restaurant with a feeling of exasperated resignation. So much for that; so much for the hoped-for seduction, the comfort sex. And how completely typical that House had called Wilson away.

And yet... Chris felt strangely positive about it. They'd had a good chat. He'd gotten an amazing insight into Wilson's feelings towards House; he doubted if Wilson had ever opened up that much to anybody. Sometimes Chris had felt Wilson was loyal to House out of a sense of past, out of guilt, out of obligation; because of a shared history, because of House's leg, because House needed him. All that was true, but it was also a lot deeper than that.

And at the same time it was all very simple. There was House, and there was Wilson. End of story. Linus was right. Wilson was right. It was better to be friends with Wilson, in the long run. Because ultimately Wilson would never be able to offer anyone else (not Chris, not Julie, not anyone) anything but half measures.

Chris left the restaurant and wondered what to do. He got on his bike and headed for a bar he knew slightly. There he struck up a conversation with an attractive dark-haired man with an engaging smile, and ended up getting laid that night after all.

The following morning, they fixed a second date.

***

Chris got into the car, buckled himself in, glanced sideways to check Linus was settled in the passenger seat, turned the engine on and headed out of Princeton. The sun was shining, and Chris realized he actually felt happy. Linus was next to him, chirpy, chattering, going home with a prognosis as good as they'd hoped for. Wilson had been very positive, and promised to stay involved with Linus's case. And maybe, just _maybe_, Chris had managed to exorcise the ghost of his relationship with Wilson.

"I need a vacation," Linus announced. "A few weeks somewhere hot, sunny, sandy. Will you keep me company, Chris?"

Chris considered for a moment, then said, "I think you should take Raul with you."

Linus's eyes opened wide in surprise. He said slowly, "Perhaps I should. Yes, perhaps I will."

Pleased, Chris took a right turn down towards the coastal road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the original end to this fic, but I then felt the need to delve into Gary's POV, and wrote another part.


	4. Additional part: Gary's story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/profile)[**evila_elf**](http://evila-elf.livejournal.com/) who always encourages me to write more about my OMCs!

As soon as Gary opened the door of apartment B and saw the man with the brilliant blue eyes, he knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to have that tall lanky frame pressed underneath him, have that stubble prickling breathlessly inches away from his face, see those blue eyes swim and fracture in climax...

It might not have gone anywhere, of course. House might have been married, or had a girlfriend, or been insulted, or offended, or just not interested. But none of those things proved to be the case. Instead House was grouchy and argumentative, and that wasn't an obstacle, merely a challenge.

And although there turned out to be a significant other hanging around, that the significant other was married and unavailable most of the time.

 

* * *

  
The bar Gary took House to on their first date was picked for various reasons. It was some ways away, it was frequented by men who wouldn't blink an eyelid if he put a hand on House's knee (or more), and it was at basement level, down a fairly long flight of steps. This last fact meant there was absolutely no chance of bumping into Alan, his ex, who used a wheelchair.

Gary had overlooked the fact that House also had a reason to be averse to steps. House didn't hesitate to complain loudly about it as they made their way down.

"This place doesn't have an elevator? I could sue them for disability discrimination. Boy, you really know how to pick a place."

Gary cast a skeptical eye over House as he tapped his way down with the cane.

"Bullshit, you can manage a set of steps like this."

The blue eyes flared in surprise. "Charming. I'm a cripple, remember?"

"And I bet you play that card all the time," Gary responded swiftly, and the blue eyes flared in amusement this time.

"And I don't often get that reaction," House admitted, as they arrived at the bottom of the stairs. He looked around the room and headed for a booth with large padded seats. "Now we're down here, I bag the comfy chair."

Several beers, four cigarettes, and some animated conversation later, Gary had his knee rammed up against House's good thigh, and House wasn't giving any hint of aversion. House had accepted a cigarette, although had only had the one in the same time Gary had managed four.

"Didn't think doctors smoked," Gary remarked, as House lit up.

"It's frowned on at work for some reason," House said solemnly and took a long drag. "It's mainly frowned on by my friend who's an oncologist... can't think why."

They ordered burgers and fries. House ate most of Gary's fries as well as his own, and demanded while dunking the last fry in ketchup, "Not hungry? Or do you get a kick out of sharing your food? If the latter, then you're doomed, in evolutionary terms."

Gary shrugged; he really didn't mind. "I don't eat much."

House cast a critical blue eye up and down Gary's tall, lean frame. "I can see that. You're too thin."

"And you're too crippled. Am I complaining?" Gary responded, and House snorted in amused surprise.

"Apparently not," said House, and pressed his knee back against Gary's leg.

Gary drank beer, and knew he was getting laid tonight.

* * *

  
Gary had expected a lot of things to be difficult after Alan had his accident.

He thought Alan would find it hard to adapt to being in a wheelchair. (Right, multiplied by a thousand). He'd worried that he wouldn't find Alan attractive now he was in a wheelchair. (Wrong). He thought they might have to move house. (Wrong). He'd been concerned they couldn't afford all the adaptations the house would require for a wheelchair user. (Wrong, Alan was awarded a large amount of compensation from the grossly negligent construction company that had caused the accident).

There was one thing Gary hadn't banked on; Alan falling in love with someone else in the middle of it all.

When Alan had told him, Gary hadn't shouted or sworn, he'd simply refused to believe it. Alan couldn't _possibly_ have fallen for someone else. Certainly not a sociology student called Stuart, with doe eyes behind large horn rimmed spectacles. Earnest and shy and twittering. They'd met him in a bathroom showroom, of all places; they'd been buying a handicapped accessible bath with a door in the side, and Stu was the minimum wage assistant trying to advise them.

Gary just couldn't take it seriously. He chose instead to ignore the jealous twang in his chest, and indulge Alan in his fling. For Chrissake, the man was in a wheelchair, would be for the rest of his life. He deserved whatever fun he could get.

"Fine, fuck Stu the Stupid Student, see if I care. Just don't catch anything from him."

Alan had pursed his lips and said, _it's not just sex_, but Gary had refused to listen. Or rather, he had listened, but ignored what he heard. Mentally stuck his fingers in his ears and his head in the sand, _la la la I can't hear you._ Alan was surely just flattered by the attention, that was all. Taking heart from the fact that he could still be attractive now he was in the wheelchair.

The day Alan had told him flatly that it was over between them, Gary had then shouted and sworn, and refused to leave ("This is MY FUCKING PLACE TOO") and eventually moved into the guest room, upset and angry but still telling himself that it would only be for a short time. He could not, after all, force Alan to move into the guest room. The bedroom was all set up with room for the chair to maneuver around, and cripple bars...

The day Gary got home tired from work to find unfamiliar underpants in the wash basket, he realized that Stu hadn't just all but moved in. He _had_ moved in.

The scales dropped from his eyes. He told Alan flatly that night that he'd sell Alan his half of the house (and tried to ignore the relief in Alan's eyes), and that he'd move out that weekend.

It hadn't been easy to find a place that weekend. 221 Baker Street was not where Gary wanted to live, it was too far from work, but apartment D was available to move into right away. Gary signed as short a lease as he could get away with, and hired a van to move his stuff.

And then something else happened he hadn't banked on; the guy in the apartment downstairs had absolutely irresistible blue eyes.

* * *

  
Gary was naturally intrigued to find out what had happened to House's leg, but House was very close-mouthed about it. He gave out only the bare facts: blood clot, infarction, muscle death, a few years ago.

Gary equally naturally turned to other ways he might find out. He wasn't a skilled hacker or anything, but he was an IT engineer. And he had the advantage of having worked on the Princeton university computer system in the past, in his previous incarnation as a consultant. He still knew how to get into their system, and rather suspected that the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital system might be connected. And lo and behold, sitting in front of his computer one evening, he found it was.

There were areas with additional levels of security--patient stuff--but Gary wasn't interested in those kind of files. He knew he wouldn't be able to make head or tail of House's medical records anyway.

Instead he went looking for management information. Bingo. Management Board minutes. Gary went back a few years, and _aha_. Dean of Medicine Dr. Cuddy's proposal to set up a Department of Diagnostic Medicine. Complete with background paper, which talked brightly of how fortunate the hospital was to have a doctor so skilled in diagnostics; what a draw this would be to patients; the money that would be brought in; and so on.

The minutes of the discussion were dry in the way minutes always were, but Gary could read between the lines. Cuddy had forced it through against much skepticism.

He flicked back a few meetings, and there was House discussed again. A short factual report from Cuddy to the Board on the state of health of one of their senior doctors, following an infarction in his leg. A line jumped out at Gary:

_"...clinically dead for over a minute..."_

Shit. Gary gulped a little, and tried to imagine House unconscious, dead, being revived... like on TV perhaps, with electric shocks? Gary had no idea. It was a nasty image...

He read on, and frowned at the description of a second operation. _"...against Dr. House's will, but while he was in a coma, and with the consent of his medical proxy..."  
_  
Gary's first thought was that this must be Wilson, but a couple of lines down saw it was someone else altogether, a woman called Stacy.

Gary sat back in his chair and considered what this meant.

Must be a girlfriend. Must be _the_ girlfriend. The one who'd broken House's heart; House had the most obvious broken heart Gary had ever seen. You could see it a mile off; in the way he walked and stood and sat (and no, not just because he was crippled); in the way he talked, the world-weary cynicism of one who had been betrayed. It was an old, crusted wound that sat there on the surface for the most part, and occasionally leaked a bitter substance.

This was how she'd broken his heart, she'd made a medical decision he'd opposed, and that was how House had ended up crippled. Gary closed his eyes and thought of House's blackened thigh. He understood completely.

Suddenly he was very glad indeed that no difficult medical decisions had ever had to be made over Alan's legs. That they'd been crushed beyond repair had been only too obvious.

* * *

  
It was obvious from the start that there was a guy called Wilson around, who played a major role in House's life. House kept mentioning him in conversation without realizing it. To Gary, it was equally obvious that there was something beyond friendship, but he couldn't quite figure out what. He didn't think House was sleeping with anyone but himself. At least, not at the moment.

He tried asking one evening. "Tell me about Wilson."

"Nope. Tell me about Wheelchair Boy."

"Nope. You've mentioned Wilson, ooh, I think four times this evening?"

"I have not!" House was indignant.

"Only by name once," Gary acknowledged. "But I think you've also referred to 'a friend of mine' or 'someone said...' at least another three times."

House glared. "All different people."

This was so obviously a lie that Gary didn't even bother to contradict House. House wouldn't talk about Wilson, fine. He'd find out some other way.

The following evening Gary sat down at his computer again, but ran up against a problem at the beginning. There was more than one Dr. Wilson at Princeton Plainsboro. An opthamologist and an oncologist. He knew it was the latter, but how to differentiate? He didn't know Wilson's first name...

He tried a different tack. There was a Princeton Plainsboro glossy magazine on the hospital intranet, clearly aimed at donors and potential donors, full of heartwarming stories about the hospital and its achievements. Gary searched for mentions of House, and found quite a few features, on each occasion having solved some medical mystery that had apparently flummoxed the medical profession. Even mentally discounting 90% of the blurb as hype, Gary was still impressed.

Then he stopped by a different kind of piece; photographs from a donor event. Donors and doctors dressed in black tie, mingling with plates of food and glasses of wine in hand.

House was in one of the photographs, although he obviously hadn't posed for it, he was turned slightly away from the camera, talking to someone else. And Gary instinctively knew this must be Wilson. They were standing close, talking animatedly; Gary already knew House well enough to know House wouldn't socialize with many people like this.

The caption read: _Two department heads in conversation. Dr. Greg House, Head of Diagnostic Medicine, and Dr. James Wilson, Head of Oncology, share some life-saving tips_.

Gary snorted at the caption, but clicked to copy the words 'Dr. James Wilson', and went to search again.

In an earlier edition of the glossy mag, he found a feature on Wilson as the newly appointed Head of Oncology. Gary read it through, and started to appreciate what a major achievement this had been. Oncology was a huge department--in a completely different league to Diagnostics. And Wilson was a few years younger than House, and had been very young indeed to be made its head. He was obviously intelligent and a high flyer.

Stood to reason, Gary thought, that House wouldn't choose to hang out with anyone stupid.

He couldn't help but observe that Wilson was not unattractive... not Gary's type (no, not _crippled_: House teased him about having a cripple kink, but that wasn't it; it was blue eyes, Alan had them too)--but definitely cute. The picture with the feature article showed him looking a little self-conscious but smiling, with large brown eyes and with a strand of hair curling out of place sideways across his forehead.

Gary lit a cigarette, and pondered the photograph.

Unexpectedly, House and Wilson featured together in one other magazine article, this one more recent--about a year ago. There was a slightly blurred photo of Wilson, looking a little dazed, standing next to a smiling brunette woman in a white headdress. Another woman stood behind, throwing confetti. The caption read, _Our Head of Oncology, Dr. James Wilson, with his lovely new wife Julie at their surprise wedding in Las Vegas last week. Photograph taken by our Head of Diagnostics, Dr. Gregory House, who was best man.  
_  
House, best man! Gary chortled aloud at the thought.

But that cast a whole new light on Wilson... he was married. That hadn't been how Gary had seen Wilson at all. And Gary started to understand a little more.

* * *

  
When they finally met, Wilson in the flesh turned out to be as cute as Wilson in the photographs, although rather more startled. Gary derived immense satisfaction from being able to emerge from House's bedroom to say hello, although he was surprised to find that House had clearly not told Wilson anything about Gary at all. House could be a real bastard sometimes. Most of the time, actually.

One thing Gary hadn't quite anticipated was that House was quite as curious about Alan as Gary was about Wilson.

Gary had been ensconced in apartment 221D and seeing House for a few weeks when he got a call from Alan; there was more stuff of his to collect. Stuart had opened a top cupboard (the kind that Alan would never reach again...) and found a box of books that belonged to Gary.

Gary wasn't bothered about the books, in fact he was tempted to tell Alan to stick them up Stupid Stu's ass, but decided instead it might be nice to see Alan again. Briefly. Show Alan he was getting on fine without him, thank-you very much.

He picked a time when Stu would be chatting up customers in the bathroom showroom, and arrived to find the box of books sitting waiting for him in the living room on the coffee table. Alan invited him to stay for coffee, and Gary agreed with a magnanimous air. They sat and talked for a while about mutual friends and acquaintances.

"You look good," Alan said sincerely, as Gary drained the last of his coffee. "Are you... seeing someone?"

"Well, as a matter of fact I am." Why not talk about it? "He's a doctor. Greg House, works at Princeton Plainsboro."

Alan froze. "House? _House?_ Is... is he a cripple? Walks with a cane?"

"That's him." Gary couldn't think what was coming next.

Alan slammed a fist down on the arm of his chair. "_That's_ what he was doing there!" He glared at Gary. "Your new boyfriend's been spying on me! He turned up at Princeton General last week posing as a doctor there. I was there for my check-up, went in the room and he was there, poring through my file."

Gary supposed he should have been outraged, but he was more intrigued than anything.

"I just thought my usual doctor was on vacation, and he was filling in. I was answering all his questions..." Suddenly Alan flushed bright red. "I thought it was odd he was asking so much about...that _fucker_!"

About... _sex?, _Gary mentally filled the gap. Suddenly he was agog to find out what House had asked, but could see Alan wasn't about to tell him. "Um... so what happened?"

"My real doctor walked in half way through, said, _God, it's Greg House! What the fuck are you doing here?_ and he made some bullshit excuse and left as fast as his cane would carry him. I just thought it was some tomfool doctor practical joke thing." Alan shook his head, then looked at Gary accusingly. "Did you put him up to this?"

"No," Gary denied indignantly.

"But you're obviously finding it hilarious." Alan was cold now. "Get out of my house."

* * *

  
Gary was in two minds about whether to confront House about the impersonation of Alan's doctor. After all, he had himself been busily investigating House in his own way, via the Princeton Plainsboro mainframe. Eventually he decided he would, if only because he was really quite keen to learn what the hell had happened.

He waited until House was at his most pliable one evening to catch him off-guard; they'd been watching a movie and House was obviously anticipating getting laid thereafter. They'd each shed some clothes and House was on his back on the couch; Gary climbed on top of him, kissed him, placed a hand strategically on House's crotch, and then squeezed just a little too hard.

"Ow, watch it," House muttered, his eyes closed.

"You've been spying on me, you bastard," Gary said evenly. "Tell me why I shouldn't break your dick off right now."

House's eyes shot open. "What the fuck!"

Gary shifted his weight sideways a little, propping himself up on a elbow. "You went off to Princeton General and impersonated Alan's doctor."

"Oh, _that,_" House said, and although he sounded contemptuous he wouldn't meet Gary's eye. Gary thought House had a slight guilty conscience about this, although there was no way House would ever admit such a thing. "No harm done. Just wanted to see what Wheelchair Boy was like."

"Tell me what you asked him," Gary said, his fingers playing lightly across House's groin. House wriggled a little.

"Not much. Mainly I wanted to see his file. See what happened to his legs. What the doctors had done. There wasn't much time to actually talk to him."

Gary waited.

House sighed a little. "I said to him I could see he'd changed his medical proxy only a month ago, and he said yes, he'd recently split up with his long term partner. I said oh, did he have a problem with the wheelchair thing?... he said _no, not at all, but I did; I couldn't believe he still wanted to be with me, didn't hate the burden I'd become to him every minute of the day... And the more understanding he was about it all, the more I hated him...And then I just met someone else who never knew what I was like before, who simply took me just as I am now.._."

Gary moved his hand upwards to rest on House's chest while House was speaking. When House had finished, Gary just stayed very still.

He'd known Alan had felt something like this, but what could he have done about it? And to have it spelled out like this, to know Alan had said this, to a doctor--

Eventually Gary asked, "What did you make of his medical file? About his treatment?"

House shook his head. "It was a fucking bad accident. Doctors did all they could, as far as I could see. There was no way he was ever going to walk again, whatever they did." He paused, and added, "I noticed they considered amputation when he was first brought in."

"I told them to fuck right off with that," Gary said immediately. "Alan was delirious with the pain and shock, they had to knock him out... I wasn't going to let them cut his legs off while he was under."

House was silent. His face didn't give anything away, but Gary could see something resonating under the surface.

After a minute House said, rather unexpectedly, "I saw the photographs in the file, the ones taken right after the accident. He was pretty screwed up. I'm sorry."

"I took those photos as evidence." Gary laughed shortly. "Alan didn't want me to, screamed _what the hell are you doing with that camera?..._ Good thing I did. The only silver lining at the end of it all was that he was so fucked up, and the construction company were so clearly to blame, they settled out of court with hardly a whimper."

House didn't say anything, but nodded approval.

Gary went on, "Alan got enough cash to put a ramp on every step in the house, put handlebars on every wall, widen every door, replace the bath with one of those walk-in ones, get a car that the chair could drive into... " He paused, then added, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice, "And buy out my share of the house."

House reached out and wrapped an arm around Gary's shoulder. Gary flopped down to rest his head on House's chest; House stayed still, running his fingers gently through Gary's hair.

They never actually got round to having sex that evening, but Gary felt he'd gotten closer to House in a whole different way.

* * *

  
Gary was banned from visiting Princeton Plainsboro except under strict supervision by House, which he tried to respect. He understood doctors had to be careful. It did grate with him though, that their relationship was hidden from pretty much everybody in House's life except Wilson. Gary wasn't used to it; he and Alan had lived together openly for so many years...

It therefore came as a very interesting surprise when Gary got to meet not only a former boyfriend of Wilson's but also a former boyfriend of House himself.

It happened one evening after he'd seen House and Wilson in a coffee shop near the hospital; Gary had been driving past and seen them go in.

He hadn't been hiding from them, but equally he hadn't been able to resist holding back and watching them together for a while. They weren't sitting that close, but Gary spotted some foot-touching going on under the table. Subtle, but definitely there. They talked, laughing quite a lot; there was a moment when they each lowered their voices and leaned in to hear the other, and Gary thought they definitely touched foreheads; just very briefly. No casual observer would have thought anything of it all, but Gary was no casual observer.

After Wilson had gone, Gary sat down with House and found to his surprise that House had a suggestion for the evening.

"How about a drive down to the coast?" House suggested. "There's a club down there we could go. I haven't been there for years, but I know the owner. I could get us in the private bar. Far from the madding crowds."

"Sounds good." Gary was most intrigued.

On the drive down, Gary asked, "So who's this owner that you know?"

"Guy called Chris." House shifted slightly in the passenger seat and yawned a little ostentatiously. "Wake me up when we get there."

Gary did a mental eye-roll; so House wasn't going to open up about this. Never mind, he'd meet this Chris himself and find out who the hell he was.

Chris turned out to be tall, fair and gray-eyed; he had powerful forearms and wore black leather trousers over muscular legs. He was cool towards House, but obviously inquisitive about Gary. Gary chatted to him for a few minutes before managing to ask the important question. "And how do you know House?"

Chris hesitated, then said, "I'm a friend of Wilson's."

"No shit!" Gary was very interested to hear this. Someone who might be able to shed light on House and Wilson.

Later on Chris came and sat on a stool at the end of the bar--clearly his preferred spot--with a glass of whiskey at his elbow, reading a newspaper. He wasn't smoking, but he held a hand out to one side as if holding a cigarette, and his fingers occasionally twitched; Gary (who had given up smoking enough times himself to see the signs) decided he had recently quit. Wilson's influence, perhaps?

Periodically, without being asked, the bartender glided up the counter to refill Chris's glass: Chris nodded his thanks each time. Gary noticed the refills came from a bottle under the counter, rather than one on view behind the bar. At one point a burly man in a suit and with a name tag saying 'Bob - General Manager' came up for to speak to Chris. He and Chris had a conversation that looked serious, presumably work related, for a few minutes.

Watching Chris interact with his staff, and with other people who came up to say hello, Gary saw a man completely comfortable in his own skin, as proprietor of the premises, towards customers, friends and work colleagues. How, he wondered, would a man like this, the owner of a gay club, have become friends with someone like Wilson? Wilson, who on all the evidence Gary was aware of (three marriages being only symptomatic), was repressed and in denial...

Gary got the chance to have a few words with Chris later on, while House was absorbed in poker. Gary sidled up just in time to hear someone leaving the room turn back to call to Chris, "How's Linus doing, Chris?"

"Radiotherapy's giving him hell," Chris replied. "But he's doing well, Wilson says."

So there was a doctor connection here. Maybe that was all. Gary sat on the stool next to Chris and prepared to ask. It turned out to be a short conversation because Chris wasn't about to hear or give out any criticism of Wilson at all.

Clearly Chris had once had feelings for Wilson, maybe still did. The question was, had it been returned?...

* * *

  
Gary and House also met another man at the club who turned out to be even more interesting to Gary than Chris. He was tall, with longish dark hair and expressive hands, and greeted House like a long-lost buddy.

His name was Dan, and to Gary's enormous interest, it became quickly clear that he was an ex of House's. From a long time ago, but an ex nonetheless. Dan, clearly a regular at the club, was the one who brought them up to the private bar. Gary noticed that House didn't whine about the stairs.

"So what are you up to these days?" House asked, settling down in a chair. "Dumped your loser boyfriend yet?"

Dan laughed and said, "Nope, he's still around," and he and House entered into a half-conversation, half-argument, about someone Gary didn't know. Gary didn't care, either; once he ascertained that Dan had a long-term boyfriend and was therefore unlikely to try and jump House when he wasn't looking, he was happy to sit back and let them talk.

Later that evening, Gary managed a brief conversation with Dan while House was in the bathroom. He found Dan sitting on the side, carefully smoking a long cigarette right to the very end.

Gary offered him another, and Dan accepted.

"So tell me about you and House," Gary said, as nonchalantly as possible.

Dan looked at him with some amusement. "Shouldn't you be asking him that?"

"He's not one to talk about himself," Gary said. Understatement of a lifetime.

"No indeed," Dan agreed, and blew out a lungful of smoke. "There's not much to tell, though."

"How long have you known him?" Gary tried a direct question.

"I met House a long time ago, here in this club. Maybe fifteen years ago? Only to say hello to at the time, he was _with_ Wilson, if you know what I mean--" Gary jerked in his seat in surprise. "Well, kind of. Wilson was married at the time, I gather he is again now." Dan shook his head. "House moved to Jersey soon after and we bumped into each other by accident. He was alone in a new town, I was fucking lonely, and ill... he diagnosed me. Gout, as it turned out."

"Gout?" Gary had no idea anyone suffered from such a disease today. It sounded positively medieval.

"Indeed. I was very young to have developed it, but House was quite right... anyway, we started going out." Dan looked a little self-conscious. "Did so for a year or so perhaps, but kind of on and off. We were both very, um, relaxed about it all. We just drifted apart in the end, and that was cool. We've met a few times since, but not for years."

Gary pondered this. "You know Wilson?"

"Yes, not at the time I was with House, but I saw him quite a lot around here--about a year and a half ago, when he was going out with Chris." __

Aha, Gary thought, confirmation. "Wilson and Chris, eh?"

"For about six months. Oh, they were just adorable together," Dan said, unexpectedly direct, and sighed. "Just adorable. It was never going to last, I fear, not with House around, but while it lasted, they were just so happy together."

Gary was starting to piece together his picture of Wilson a little better. This thrice married best friend of House's had also had a real, apparently fulfilling relationship with a man; a man who ran a gay club.

Dan went on, "Wilson never knew about me and House, by the way--I'd be grateful if you didn't mention it. House was always very sensitive about it. Probably still is."

Gary nodded slowly, getting his head round it all. He saw House emerge from the bathroom, over the other side of the room.

Dan saw him too, and went on quickly, "If Wilson being around bothers _you_, you need to get over it."

Gary stared, surprised. Chris had said something very similar; Gary thought the advice sucked.

"Wilson is always going to be the most important person in House's life. And vice versa. There's room for you like there was room for me, but don't get any ideas you'll ever displace Wilson." Dan tapped the cigarette against the ashtray. "And don't make House choose, because you won't like the result."

Gary didn't reply, not only because House was bearing down on them, but also because he didn't like what he was hearing. Gary thought Dan was unbelievably laid back about it all.

* * *

  
Gary genuinely admired House's expedition to Princeton General to investigate Alan, and decided it would be interesting to try something similar to investigate Wilson. Not disguise himself as a doctor, of course, and anyway Wilson knew what he looked like... but there was something he could pull off.

He still had some business cards from his previous existence as an IT consultant. He skipped work one afternoon when he knew all good doctors would be hard at work at Princeton Plainsboro, drove to a suburban street and started going from door to door, flashing his cards and asking if people had any computer problems that needed fixing, very reasonable fee for a half hour consult.

He started a few doors down from where he wanted to get to, and had advised two people to defragment their hard disks, when he got to the door he'd been waiting for.

It was answered by a small brunette woman wearing a frilly blouse and knee length skirt. Her expression was slightly vacant and Gary's first thought was that she was high on something. Valium, perhaps.

"Hi," he said, handing her a card, and gave her his spiel. "So any computer problems, just say and I'll take a look. Perhaps it's very slow starting up, or something...."

"Well actually, yes, my computer is rather slow starting up," she said.

Bingo. Gary had been fairly sure this would work. Everybody not that IT-literate had a computer that was slow starting up.

"Then perhaps I could come in, Mrs...?"

"Wilson. Call me Julie," she said, and stepped aside to let him in.

He was in the Wilson family home! Gary tried not to crane his neck too much peering around. Heavy floral drapes and dark wooden furniture dominated.

He was shown the PC in question, and surprise surprise, the hard disk was fragmented to high heaven. Gary ran disk cleanup and showed Julie how to defragment the disk. She paid him his fee up front, fetched him a soda while the cleanup was running, asked questions and generally seemed very nice. His first impression that she was on Valium, however, was definitely reinforced; she seemed a little bit other-worldly the whole time.

He also thought perhaps she was leaning in rather too closely towards him, and discovered this was right when he stood up to leave, and she had turned away for a minute.

"Well, I guess I'll be going," he said, and she turned to face him, and his jaw dropped before he could stop it. She was looking up at him with eyes that were suddenly animated, lips that were pouting. And she had undone her blouse to expose her breasts.

Gary had two immediate thoughts. First, this woman clearly had no gaydar whatsoever. (Which kinda explained a lot). Second, the Wilson marriage was clearly in an even more pathetic state than he'd guessed. No _wonder_ House was hanging on in there.

As someone who had been secure in his sexuality before he'd known what sexuality was, Gary couldn't have responded to her even if he'd wanted to, he just wasn't wired that way. He felt he should let her down gently, but had no idea how.

"Um," he said awkwardly. "Thanks, I'm flattered, but um..." _Lie! Lie!_ "I'm..." (Married? No, so was she...) "With someone at the moment." (Hey, that was even true).

For a few seconds Gary contemplated what on earth Julie would say if she knew just who he was with. _His name's House, he's your husband's best friend. _ It was both too delicious and frankly horrible to contemplate, so he parked that thought and concentrated on looking apologetic.

She shrugged, said, "That's cool," and turned away to button her blouse.

Gary escaped the house as quickly as he could, wondering how often she offered herself up to tradesmen and passing visitors, pondering whether Wilson had any idea this happened (he thought not), and thinking just how fucking lonely she must be in her marriage to do this.

* * *

  
In the end, Gary just couldn't handle it any more. He couldn't cope with the idea of sharing House with anyone, least of all Wilson. The memory of Stu sneaking into Alan's life, home, _bed, _was strong; Gary couldn't, wouldn't let that happen again. He could envisage it exactly: Wilson's marriage finally smashing up on the rocks, Wilson on House's doorstep, House there for him. And Gary left on the scrapheap. Again.

He wasn't going to wait for that to happen; better to jump ship first.

The night he split up with House, Gary stayed out until late, drowning his sorrows in a remote bar. When he ventured back to Baker Street in the early hours, it was to find Wilson's Volvo parked outside no. 221. Gary stared at it for a long moment.

Naturally, House had called Wilson for a ride home... but having got home, Wilson was still there. And it was very late indeed.

Gary concluded that House and Wilson were probably having comfort sex right now, and fuck it, that meant he'd actually served to bring them together. The irony was just too painful.

He went up to his own apartment and booted up his computer. He logged on to his work email and found the one he'd been thinking about. His company was branching out to Europe, and a message had gone out a few days ago asking for volunteers to move to help set up the new London office. Generous relocation allowances available. Gary liked the idea of living in London and hey, there sure wasn't much to keep him in Princeton any more. He knew they'd snap him up too; his boss was one of the people moving and she would jump at the chance to keep him working for her.

He dashed off an email offering his services, and then dashed off a second email to his landlord giving a week's notice on the apartment. There was no way he was going to live above House any longer than he had too, and especially if House was going to be fucking Wilson down there. He could find somewhere temporary while the London transfer was arranged, put his stuff in store.

* * *

  
The last time he saw House was the day he moved out of 221D; heading down the hallway, carrying a box, he met House just coming out of apartment B.

"Hey," Gary said awkwardly.

"Hey," House muttered, and nodded at the van outside. "Moving far?"

"Three thousand miles or so," Gary said casually, and enjoyed House's surprise. "The company's transferring me to London. For a year initially, could be longer. I leave in three weeks; I'm staying in a hotel until then."

"Really," House said slowly. "London. Best watch out, you'll come back with a stupid accent and bad teeth." He fixed Gary with a penetrating blue gaze. "Had this planned for long?"

Gary took a deep breath, locked eyeballs and lied through his teeth. "Ever since I left Alan, pretty much."

Gary watched as House turned this over in his head, trying to decide how much truth there was in this. Whether it was any better to be the rebound fuck just filling in time before a new life abroad, or whether this had been a real relationship that had sadly ended after a few months because _that bastard Wilson_ was just, well, there.

"You're lying," House said, with an air of confidence, and Gary was pleased, because he knew House himself was lying. House was telling himself right now that Gary had always had this London move in mind, so their relationship would never have lasted anyway. And although that might be painful to live with, it did at least mean Wilson hadn't been the sole cause it had ended.

"You think what you want," Gary said gently. He picked up the box, and headed out of the door without a backwards glance.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dan's story available here: [Barber/Surgeon](http://hwshipper.livejournal.com/25320.html).


End file.
